


Out of the Frying Pan

by WelpThisIsHappening



Series: Out of the Frying Pan [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cooking, F/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-10-17 16:11:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 40
Words: 272,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10597572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WelpThisIsHappening/pseuds/WelpThisIsHappening
Summary: Emma Swan is only doing this for one reason, well, make that two. To get her show's numbers back up and, maybe, impress her son. She doesn't like admitting to that second one though.Killian Jones is doing this for absolutely, positively, just one reason. To expand his restaurant. And maybe get Regina off his back. So that's kind of two reasons.Neither one of them is doing a year-long Food Network all-star competition because they're celebrity chefs and there's not really any other choice. Of course not. And neither one of them is enjoying it because they maybe, kind of, sort of enjoy each other. That would be insane.





	1. Chapter 1

“Mom!”

Emma groaned.

“ _Mom!_ "

The bed was shaking. Emma turned her head on the pillow, resisting the very real urge to push her face into the fabric underneath her, and cracked open one eye. The bed wasn’t shaking – it was being shaken.

She took a deep breath and bit back yet another groan, reaching up to push a piece of hair out of her eyes. “What time is it?”

“Time!”

“That’s not a number, kid.”

“Mom,” Henry sighed, drawing the three letters into one, incredibly long and vaguely impressive syllable. “It’s tiiime.”

He shook the bed again, pushing the edge mattress with his hand and Emma was momentarily surprised by the strength of her 12-year-old son. She shouldn’t be surprised by anything at this point, honestly. Henry was a whirlwind of, well, everything.

There weren’t enough adjectives in the entire world to describe everything Henry was to Emma.

He was the reason she got up – or would eventually get up – and the reason she was slated to stand under several dozen scalding hot lights that afternoon.

Emma Swan, celebrity chef wasn’t a phrase she’d ever particularly envisioned for herself, but, somehow, that was where they’d found themselves.

It was a far cry from the pregnant teenager who’d wound up in jail after taking the fall for her boyfriend’s crimes. Stolen watches. And Neal Cassidy was gone to Canada before Emma could even try to come up with some sort of alibi.

She’d found out she was pregnant two weeks into her eight-month prison stint.

And for awhile she’d considered giving him up. Henry deserved a chance and, at that point in her life, Emma was convinced she couldn’t give it to him.

But then they put him in her arms and her whole world had shifted on its axis and Emma promised herself she’d do anything to make sure this boy got everything she’d never had.

So, she’d get up and she’d stand under lights wearing approximately eighteen pounds of makeup and smile and teach the TV-watching public how to make the perfect chicken cacciatore.

No one made chicken cacciatore better than Emma did.

The mattress shook again – a very forceful reminder that she had a schedule to stick to – and Emma pulled herself up, brushing her fingers across Henry’s forehead and earning a very almost-teenager groan in the process.

“You need a haircut,” she muttered, pressing her fingers into her son’s hair. “I’m surprised I haven’t gotten a note from school telling me you’re breaking the dress code or something.”

“Mary Margaret would tell you first. And there may be a note in my backpack.”

“Henry!”

“It’s not that big of a deal,” he said quickly, taking a step back and, finally, letting go of the mattress. “You’re busy. I’ll get it cut at some point.”

“I am not too busy for notes from school,” she sighed, falling into mom-mode immediately. “You know the rules.”

“No secrets.”

“That’s right. We talk. We discuss. We figure out a day I’m not filming to take you to SuperCuts.”

“SuperCuts?”

He’d practically perfected the groan at this point and he sounded so much like David that Emma squeezed her eyes shut quickly, fighting off a wave of deja vu and emotion that simply didn’t belong at 7:30 in the morning.

“Mom?” Henry asked, not missing a single thing. “You ok?”

“Absolutely, kid,” she promised, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and nudging at his knee with her foot. “Come on. As you so thoughtfully pointed out, it’s time to get up. What do you want for breakfast?”

“Mary Margaret left bear claws in the kitchen last night.”

Emma’s shoulders dropped – she’d been at a signing the night before and Henry had been left in the care of her brother and sister-in-law. It was something that was beginning to happen far more than she liked.

But the line for autographs had been long and people seemed to care and want to know where she got her recipe for crème brûlée and she couldn’t turn people away when they’d spent most of their Thursday night waiting for a few minutes to talk to her.

Henry, of course, picked up on her internal dilemma immediately.

He was far more cognizant at 7:30 in the morning than she was – 12-year-olds, it seemed, did not require several cups of coffee to wake up.

“It’s ok, mom,” he said, sinking next to her on the bed. Emma’s arm wrapped around his shoulders instinctively and she hugged him close to her side like he wasn’t half grown up and they were still living in that shoebox apartment on 16th Street. “Was the line super long? Were there a ton of people?

“It’s only ok because Mary Margaret and David are the best. And yes. And yes to the second question too.”

“Then it’s definitely ok.”

“Any one tell you how awesome you are yet today?”

Henry looked up at her, smile plastered on his face. She asked him that every day – and every day his returning smile made Emma’s stomach flip with how much she loved this kid. “Not yet,” he said, repeating his line with ease. “But thanks for looking out.”

“Always.”

“You’re pretty awesome too,” he said softly, glancing back down at his hands in his lap. That wasn’t part of the scene.

Emma leaned over, kissing the top of his head and he squirmed underneath her. “Oh, stop,” she laughed, pulling him even closer to her until she was nearly falling over. “Consider it good luck for the great big, announcement we’re supposedly getting today.”

“It’s going to be good.”

“You’re awfully confident.”

“I believe in you, mom,” he said simply and Emma’s breath caught in her throat.

It was too early for this.

She also needed him to believe in her just a bit too because, despite the long line the night before, Emma knew her numbers were down. They’d been bumped up an hour earlier on Sunday morning and the once-a-week cooking show didn’t exactly fit in with the theme the network was running with anymore.

It wasn’t a reality show. It wasn’t a competition. It was straight cooking instruction, based entirely on Emma’s ability to appeal to the viewer.

And, for the last couple of years, it had worked.

It had been great – the line and the number of Facebook likes on her professional page were a testament to that. But a, now, nine o’clock timeslot on Sunday morning didn’t exactly draw in the crowds and while her producer, Ruby Lucas, had practically begged her to bring Henry on the show seemingly every other day, Emma had resolutely refused to allow her personal life to even start to seep onto the screen.

Emma Swan, celebrity chef was a completely different person than Emma Swan, teenage mom and former convict.

And she was going to keep it that way.

She’d play the role and she’d silently continue to dread whatever great, big announcement was waiting for her as soon as she made it uptown that morning.

“Save the bear claws for when you get home from school later,” Emma said, standing up and tugging on the collar of Henry’s t-shirt as she moved. He raised his eyes in question and Emma grinned at him. “What do you say to french toast this morning?”

His eyes lit up and he practically sprinted out of the bedroom, rushing towards the kitchen. “I’ll take that as a yes,” Emma laughed, pushing her feet into the pair of slippers next to her bed and walking out the door.

* * *

His alarm went off loudly, the sound seeping into his only-slightly conscious brain and Killian squeezed his eyes shut, desperate to spend at least a few more minutes in bed.

His head felt like it was going to snap in half.

God, what had they done last night?

Robin had come to the restaurant, going on about Regina and the show and the ridiculous schedule that was restocking the Iron Chef prep kitchen and Killian had played supportive friend for all of five minutes before grabbing a bottle of rum and pouring each of them a glass.

It was not the last glass either of them drank.

And now he was paying for it.

Badly.

He hoped Robin was too.

Fair’s only fair, after all.

Killian reached his right hand out, slamming his palm down on the alarm clock he absolutely refused to throw away. Robin and Eric made fun of him mercilessly for it. And he wouldn’t get rid of it.

He’d had the same alarm clock in every room he’d ever lived in from the time he was thirteen until that very morning. The stupid thing could snap in half and he’d probably bring it with him to the next apartment he’d live in.

Killian fell back on the pillow, fighting off the nostalgia and memories that were threatening on the edge of his memory. Liam had packed that alarm clock when they moved into the apartment on 87th Street – just a few weeks after their mom died.

They’d sold most of their stuff to pay the security deposit on the apartment - a whopping 350 square feet without an oven and a bathroom down the hallway – but Liam had insisted, for whatever reason, that the alarm clock had to come.

“How else will you know when to get up for school?” he asked, ruffling Killian’s hair as he kicked open the door to the brand-new apartment, smile plastered on his face in attempt to make everything seem normal.

He wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all Killian, but he appreciated the effort.

And he appreciated the alarm clock.

So it had come with him everywhere.

Killian grabbed his phone off the nightstand next to him, swiping his thumb across the screen to find eighteen e-mails waiting for him already. At 7:30 in the morning. Jesus Christ.

He briefly considered just going back to bed, but one e-mail stuck out at him. Regina Mills had sent him a message with the subject: FORGET THE RUM FOR TWO SECONDS AND READ THIS.

Killian felt the smile tugging on the corners of his lips immediately, momentarily forgetting the pounding ache just behind his eyes. He fought off the dizziness that came with sitting up and pressed his back against the headboard to keep his bearings as he read the message.

_K,_

_If the reason Robin isn’t answering his phone is because you’re plying him with rum over his meltdown about the prep kitchen, I’m going to personally punch you right in the face when you walk into the studio tomorrow morning._

_Where, by the way, you need to be._

_I told you this last week, but you’re you and you hate coming into the studio and I know that between the several days since I mentioned this and the absolutely exorbitant amount of rum you and my fiancé have presumably consumed tonight, I felt like I needed to remind you. _

_This is big, Killian. Really big. And, no, I can’t just tell you over the phone or e-mail or a quick text message, so don’t bother asking me. We’re playing by the rules on this one._

_So get to midtown by 9:30._

_I know, I know, midtown is the worst place in the world and it smells like garbage and you simply can’t stand the tourists. I don’t care. Be here or, as promised, I will punch you in the face and then several other body parts as well._

_And make sure you drink some water too._

_Regina_

Killian tossed the phone on his bed, smile still on his face as he shook his head slowly. Regina Mills was, to put it lightly, a force of nature.

She and Robin Locksley had walked into his restaurant five years ago on their first date and somehow found a way to wiggle their way into his life when Killian wasn’t particularly certain he wanted anything in his life, let alone new friends who wanted to make sure he was happy or something else overly emotional.

They’d raved about his food and Regina had tactfully avoided looking at his hand – or lack thereof.

Robin, however, had not been quite as diplomatic.

He’d come back into the restaurant the next day, taken up a seat at the bar and looked directly at Killian when he asked, “what happened?”

Killian wasn’t sure he’d actually ever been that angry. Except when he actually lost the hand. Robin took it all in stride. He sat there in front of the bar and waited, eyebrows raised as if he was only passably interested.

And, for some reason, Killian had told him.

He stood behind his bar in his slightly-successful restaurant and told this near-stranger how he’d lost his hand and his brother and everything that had ever really mattered to him.

The restaurant was all he had left.

The food was all he had left.

And, then, quite suddenly, Killian had the restaurant and the food and Regina and Robin.

He kind of felt like he owed them something.

Killian grabbed his phone again, hit reply on the screen and typed back a quick message:

_Bring me some water if you want to help. And give your fiancé a break about stocking the kitchen, there’s 800,000 ingredients that need to be in there. _

_I’ll be there at 9:25._

_K_

The room spun a bit again as he stood up and he pressed his eyes together tightly at the feeling. He couldn’t quite remember the last time he’d actually been hungover.

Years.

It had to be years.

It wasn’t a feeling he particularly enjoyed anymore. After all, it had been one he’d been particularly familiar with before.

He’d blame Robin when he saw him at the studio later that morning.

Killian heard his phone ding again as he walked towards his bedroom door – Regina was nothing if not efficient – and he glanced back at the sound, eyes falling on the prosthetic that was also sitting on the nightstand, some sort of glaring reminder of everything he’d been through and everything he’d lost.

And, maybe, if he was feeling particularly sentimental, everything he’d gained as well.

Killian shook his head, pushing that sentiment to the deepest corner of his brain and thinking only of the hot shower waiting for him down the hallway. He needed to get rid of this headache before the really big announcement.

* * *

Emma walked through the front doors of the Food Network offices on 6th Avenue, a bit out of breath after weaving through the rush hour traffic on the ‘D’ train.

She hated coming into midtown.

It was awful.

And congested. And it smelled like garbage all year long – that rumor about the smell just lingering through summer was a complete lie.

She nodded at the man sitting behind the security desk, reaching in her bag to grab her ID. “Oh, you don’t need that,” he said quickly, brushing his hands through the air. “I know who you are. You can go right up.”

“Oh,” Emma blinked several times, taken aback by the immediate foray into celebrity. She’d never get used to that. Ever. “Thanks.”

“Of course Ms. Swan.”

“Emma, please.”

His eyes widened slightly and he smiled genuinely at her, sitting up just a bit straighter. “Doc,” he said, pushing his glasses farther up his nose.

“It’s nice to meet you Doc.”

“You too, Emma. And good luck up there.”

Emma’s head tilted at the well-wish, curiosity shooting through her quickly. Doc just kept smiling and he looked so enthusiastic Emma couldn’t bring herself to ask any more questions. She was also running late – the near-constant buzzing of her phone a reminder from Ruby that she was five minutes behind schedule.

Emma jogged towards the elevator lobby, pressing the button in front of her several times as she bobbed up and down on her feet. Her phone vibrated again in her pocket.

The doors dinged open and Emma practically jumped in, impatiently hitting the floor for Ruby’s office. She made it there in twenty-three seconds. Not that she was counting or anything. She was just a bit anxious and a little bit worried as to why she’d need good luck to meet with the producer of her own show.

Emma didn’t stand on ceremony once she made it to the 17th floor, pushing open the door to Ruby’s office to find her sitting behind her desk, feet propped up on the imitation wood with a phone pressed up against her ear.

Ruby nodded in her direction, shooting a glare at Emma for good measure – she was several minutes late, after all – and continued to talk. “Yeah, yeah, she’s here now. Yeah, we’ll head up in two seconds. I know it’s big. I know. I told her. Of course I told her.” Ruby sighed dramatically and squeezed her eyes shut. “Don’t do that. No. I’m serious Z, don’t do that. I’ll get her to pick and we’ll get back to you.”

Ruby slammed down the phone receiver two seconds later, practically growling with frustration as she kicked her feet into the floor, heels making a noise that ricocheted off Emma’s brain when they landed.

“You’re late,” Ruby said, standing up and pressing out the lines of her pencil skirt, not meeting Emma’s eyes.

Emma felt guilty for a beat, scuffing her feet along the floor, half in Ruby’s office and half in the hallway. “Yeah, I know,” she sighed. “Trains were a mess. And it took awhile to get Henry to school.”

“French toast?” Ruby asked, knowingly, finally meeting Emma’s gaze and smiling softly. Emma nodded and Ruby let out a huff of air. She took a few steps towards Emma’s spot in the doorframe and squeezed her forearm. “Well, then I guess that’s ok.”

“You’re the best producer a girl could ask for.”

“Yeah, remember that feeling in two minutes.”

Emma widened her eyes at Ruby, following her and her bright-red highlights out into the hallway and back towards the elevator she just walked out of. “Wait,” Emma said quickly. “We’re not doing the great, big news announcement in your office?”

Ruby shook her head, pressing the elevator button. The doors opened almost immediately. Of course they did. “I wasn’t lying when I said this was big, Emma,” she said, stepping in and hitting the 27th floor. Emma’s eyes widened again. That was the network boss. She’d never actually been to that floor before.

Good luck up there, indeed.

* * *

“Tell me again why I had to get here at 9:25 if no one else was going to get here on time?” Killian asked, sounding like a petulant child as he spoke.

Regina threw him a glare, glancing up from her blood-red nails and the set of her shoulders practically screamed at him to stop talking.

The conference room was filled – except for two seats at the other end of the table. “We have to wait for everyone,” Zelena said, voice strained with the patience she was trying to convey. Killian smirked at her.

“And who exactly is it that we’re waiting for?”

He took stock of the rest of the room, the faces in front of him all vaguely familiar. He did, after all, own a TV. And Regina had been feeding him information as the table slowly, but surely filled up over the last ten minutes.

Graham Humbert, quiet, woodsy, builds his own fires to cook food on, sat across the table from Killian and Regina. He was his own producer too. Of course he was. Killian might have hated him a little bit already.

Belle French was on his right, flanked by her producer Anna Dellen. She hosted a dessert show that, per Regina, had something like 800 episodes and ran in syndication every night at 7 p.m. The new episodes aired on Thursday at 9:30 p.m.

She smiled at Killian, a warm look that probably could have cooked several batches of cookies or cupcakes or something equally as sweet and for a moment he actually felt bad that he’d fallen so easily into swaggering asshole mode because he had to wait a few minutes for the final chef.

He heard a pair of heels coming down the hallway, but there was another set of feet there as well and Killian strained to hear what it was. Sneakers. He could hear the squeak. And then the squeak was in the doorway and Killian couldn’t really breathe.

“Emma Swan,” Regina muttered, leaning closer to his ear.

Killian didn’t care.

Or maybe he cared about that more than anything in the history of anything.

“She hosts a show on Sunday morning,” Regina continued, filling Killian’s ear with information he absolutely wasn’t listening to. “They bumped her up an hour a couple of weeks ago, something about lower viewership, but her sales are really, really good and she’s got some kind of ridiculously devoted fandom.”

He didn’t care.

He was already her number one fan.

She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, eyes bright and so green he could even see them from across the conference room. Her hair fell softly over her shoulders, cheeks flushed – probably because she knew she was five minutes late too – and Killian wondered how he’d never seen her before, either on TV or in the building.

He knew the answer of course – he never watched TV and he avoided this building like it was the goddamn plague.

“What does she cook?” Killian asked, somehow finding his voice and hoping he actually wasn’t screaming. He had no idea. He couldn’t stop staring at her.

He knew Regina was looking at him, could feel her curious stare boring into his still aching head, but he refused to turn towards her. He kept staring at Emma, watching her cross the room and sink into one of the two empty chairs left at the table.

She must have realized he was staring – admittedly a bit like a creep – and her eyes snapped to his. Emma’s mouth opened slightly, lips parting in a silent gasp and Killian felt one side of his mouth tick up at the movement.

She didn’t smile back.

Instead, her eyebrows lowered and her eyes narrowed and her mouth closed quickly. Huh, usually the smirk worked.

“French,” Regina said. “Like fine French and so freaking delicious it’s not even funny. And stop that, Emma Swan is not going to fall for your smirk.”

Killian turned his head to look at Regina who seemed particularly pleaesd with her ability to read him so well. He didn’t get a chance to fire back any sort of witty retort before Zelena cleared her throat meaningfully and the entire table turned its attention towards the network head.

“Thanks for joining us Emma,” Zelena said pointedly and Killian thought he saw her slide down the back of her chair slightly. She sighed, tilting her head and twisting her mouth and mumbling something that sounded like an apology.

Goddamn, he was being charmed by her.

That wasn’t fair.

He was hungover. He wasn’t supposed to be charmed by anyone.

“Alright,” Zelena continued, falling into professional with ease, “the reason we’re all here is because we’ve got some big news to share with you.”

Killian glanced around the room again and wondered how he fit into this group exactly. It wasn’t like he had his own show. He had an occasional appearance on Iron Chef and a restaurant in Tribeca and a take-home line of barbeque sauce that made an absolute ridiculous amount of money.

Regina promised him this news was big and important to his position on the network, but he was a celebrity chef in the loosest sense of the term. He also hated the term. Killian didn’t want to be a celebrity.

He wanted to cook.

Because it was the only thing he’d ever actually had any control over. Or, in a completely depressing turn of events, had ever actually been any good at.

“Sit up straighter,” Regina muttered, kicking at his ankle underneath the table.

Killian glared at her, but did as instructed, more worried about the consequences of not listening than giving in to his producer. “Yes, mom,” he whispered sharply, not taking his eyes off Zelena.

“We’re going to be staging something new over the next twelve months,” Zelena said. “A network-wide competition with some of our biggest stars. We’re going to do four shows that are already popular on the network – Cutthroat Kitchen, Chopped, Cupcake Wars and Grocery Games – then as a grand-finale of sorts, we’re going to do one final competition between the four of you. You’ll have to cook a five-course meal and be able to produce the recipes for our viewers. We’ll be selling the combined book once the series wraps next year.”

Killian bit back the groan that was threatening to work its way out of his chest.

He didn’t have time for this.

He hadn’t told Regina yet, but he and Robin had spent the last month talking about the possibility of expanding The Jolly Roger. The restaurant had been doing well – absurdly well – since Iron Chef and the pop-up shops they’d done during the holidays for the sauce were an overwhelming success. He didn’t even have to charge Robin and Regina a catering fee for their wedding – not that he would have anyway, but it was more fun to flaunt his success a little bit as a reason for letting them off easy.

Killian didn’t have time for some year-long competition that paraded him in front of cameras and made him compete against people he didn’t even know.

He chanced a glance at Emma Swan who definitely had slid down her chair at this point. She was glaring at her producer and her lips were moving so quickly it barely even looked like she was talking.

She didn’t like the idea either.

“I’m not doing this,” Killian said softly.

“Yes you are,” Regina said and the tone of her voice suggested there was nothing to argue about. Killian wasn’t ready to go down without a fight though.

He could argue over anything.

Liam would have said...Killian shook his head quickly, banishing those thoughts as quickly as they came. He was just hungover. That was the only explanation for the questionable number of times he’d thought about Liam in the last two hours.

He usually did his best to not think about his brother.

“As an added bonus,” Zelena said, seemingly oblivious to the disappointed mood the room had adopted in the last 30 seconds. “This whole thing is going to be for charity. So you’ll win money in every round and then the person with the most money and the most wins ahead of the five-course extravaganza will earn an extra $50,000 to the charity of their choice.”

Killian’s head snapped towards Regina, who had a smug smile on her face. She crossed her arms and leaned back against the chair. “Told you you’d do it.”

* * *

Emma all but stormed out of the conference room twenty minutes later, keeping a step ahead of Ruby so she wouldn’t actually have to talk about this.

This was not the great, big news she was hoping for.

She’d been hoping for better news about the timeslot or the viewership numbers or maybe another cookbook idea. A year-long charity competition against three other celebrity chefs was not something Emma was particularly interested in.

She simply wasn’t a competitive person.

She fought for what she wanted and who she loved and that was it – she didn’t want to battle anyone. She wanted to get a better timeslot.

And make Henry dinner more often.

“Emma,” Ruby sighed, grabbing her wrist and yanking her to a stop. Emma barely had a chance to appreciate that she wasn’t wearing five-inch heels as she managed to keep her balance. “Come on, give me two seconds to explain what’s going on here.”

Emma heaved a sigh and spun around, meeting Ruby’s slightly-apologetic look with full force. She sighed again, realizing quite suddenly, that her producer wasn’t actually trying to back her into a corner.

“Let me guess,” Emma said. “You didn’t have a choice.”

“I didn’t.”

“Of course.”

“Come on,” Ruby pleaded, hand still wrapped around Emma’s arm. “You know I’d fight for you if I thought I could get you out of this. But I can’t. And you should take it as a compliment anyway. You heard Zelena, this just means you’re one of the network’s most popular stars.”

“Who has to regularly ship her kid off on her brother and his wife so she can continue to be that popular.”

“Henry understands.”

“That’s the problem.”

“What’s the problem?”

Emma spun around at the voice, coming face-to-face with a man she only passably recognized. He was on one of the competition shows. At least she thought he was. She’d never actually seen him in the network offices before.

Which wasn’t entirely fair because Emma avoided the network offices as much as humanly possible.

“Nothing,” she said quickly.

He actually smirked at her. Who the hell was this guy?

He was, admittedly, ridiculously attractive – all dark hair and blue eyes and a simple sense of confidence that put Emma at ease much faster than she wanted .

She glanced back over her shoulder at Ruby who was determinedly staring at her phone, ignoring the entire situation entirely. Traitor.

He stuck his hand out into the space in front of them and Emma stared at it skeptically. “It won’t bite,” he said, voice tinged with laughter.

Emma glared at him. “I wouldn’t put it past it. Or you.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“Precisely.”

“And yet I know you think there’s some sort of problem with this competition,” he said, hand still hanging in the air. He wiggled his fingers quickly and did something absolutely absurd with his eyebrows, making Emma’s stomach flip in a way that it hadn’t since she was a teenager. “Seems kind of lopsided doesn’t it? Only fair we remedy that situation, I think.”

Emma sighed and narrowed her eyes. He was still smirking at her. “What do you suggest?”

“Killian Jones,” he said simply, shaking his hand again meaningfully. “Nice to meet you.”

Emma wrapped her fingers around his, startled slightly at how warm his hand was and glanced up to meet his gaze straight on.

She felt a pull in her stomach as his fingers laced through hers and she knew Ruby was smiling at her from the other side of the lobby.

“And you are, love?” he prompted. Emma widened her eyebrows, head jerking back slightly at the endearment. She also got the distinct impression he already knew the answer to that question.

“Emma Swan,” she answered.

“Nice to meet you, Swan,” he said, squeezing her hand before dropping it back to his side.

“Not to be rude,” Emma said softly, noticing immediately the tension that practically flew to his shoulders. He took a step back and his left hand moved behind his back. She bit back the questions about that and focused on the first question she was trying to answer. “What show are you on exactly?”

The tension was gone as soon as it came and the smirk was back and Emma felt her defenses go back up immediately. “You, love, are in the presence of an Iron Chef.”

“Oh my God,” Emma laughed, the sound bubbling out of her before he could stop it. “Are you serious?”

“Why would I joke about something as serious as a food competition we stole from Japan?”

Emma stared at him, waiting for the rest of the joke or the next cocky comment. It never came. He kept his hand trained behind his back and continued to smirk and, God, his eyes were absolutely unfair.

“As mentioned, I don’t know anything about you,” Emma said.

He laughed softly under his breath. “You don’t watch your own network’s shows?”

Caught.

Emma bit her lip tightly, pulling it back behind her teeth and Killian laughed again as he ran his right hand through his hair. He stepped back towards her, crowding into her space and making her wonder if maybe she should watch her own network’s shows.

“I’ve got other things going on,” Emma brushed off, waving her hands quickly and trying to not actually come in contact with his ridiculously tight black t-shirt. It was the beginning of September and it was warm, but it wasn’t just-tshirt-weather-warm. Emma was upset about it – but that may have mostly been because it was absurdly attractive.

“Things would make this year-long competition for charity a problem?”

Emma gaped at him, eyes still wide and Killian grinned at her. “I don’t have a problem with charity,” she mumbled.

“Just competition?”

She pressed her lips together tightly and Emma knew the moment he realized he’d figured it out. “How could you possibly know that?”

“You’re something of an open book.”

“That so?” she asked, glancing nervously over her shoulder. Ruby was still staring at her phone. Emma was going to have a very serious conversation with her producer as soon as she figured out a way to get out of this lobby. “You’re a psychic and an Iron Chef? That’s impressive.”

He rolled his shoulders – hand still behind his back – and looked a little nervous all of a sudden, rocking back on his heels. It didn’t last long. Zelena and another woman walked out of the conference room and as soon as the sound of heels filled the lobby, something clicked on his face.

Killian shook his head quickly and did something ridiculous with his eyebrows again. “I’m nothing short of phenomenal, love,” he said softly and his voice seemed to shoot straight to Emma’s core.

He noticed that.

Of course he did.

“Killian,” the woman next to Zelena called. He snapped his heads towards her as she nodded at the elevator. “We’ve got to talk about the next IC appearance.”

“Yeah, sure.”

He spun back on Emma, eyes bright with something she couldn’t quite recognize – a voice in the back of her head threw the word interested at her, but she refused to even entertain the thought. The guy was a part-time chef who waltzed in and out of conversations with smirks and laughter and those ridiculously blue eyes.

She suddenly realized what she had to do – she didn’t just have to play in this competition, she had to win.

“It was nice to meet you Swan,” he muttered softly, eyes darting from hers down to her lips and back up again. “I look forward to watching you work.” He smirked at her again, widening his eyes meaningfully before glancing over her shoulder. “See you later, Ruby,” he added before turning away and meeting the two women in the elevator.

“See you Killian,” Ruby said softly, finally looking up from her phone and coming to stand next to Emma.

“You want to pick a charity?” she asked, fingers dancing over her phone screen as she glanced at Emma.

“Yeah,” Emma answered. “Let’s do this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hai guys! I am back - still with no concept of word count and, this time, celebrity chefs. This grew out of an idea while watching an episode of Cutthroat Kitchen where I, literally, yelled "THIS IS A FIC" at my husband. It is now a fic. A very loud thank you to @laurnorder for her absolutely fantastic beta skills and for telling me to post the thing. Feel free to come flail with me on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	2. Chapter 2

“Don’t let it get to you,” Ruby said for what felt like the thousandth time.

Emma muttered a response, glancing down at the stovetop in front of her and brushing off her friend. Ruby stared at her for a beat, face a perfect reflection of how much she knew it was getting to Emma, before she sighed dramatically, throwing her hands up in the air for good measure and walked away.

“We’ve got to reshoot those last couple of lines,” a voice called from a few feet away, sitting behind an enormous camera. Emma resisted the urge to roll her eyes – it was the _fourth time_ they’d reshot those last couple of lines – and rubbed her hands over her face instead, fingers pressing into her cheekbones until she almost felt like she was starting to relieve some sort of pressure.

It shouldn’t have been getting to her.

It was absolutely getting to her.

Emma could make this meal in her sleep – practically had when Henry was growing up and she had five ingredients in her kitchen and $26.75 to her name. And now she couldn’t get the line right.

What was she even supposed to say? Something about how only a few, good ingredients can turn into something spectacular? Something like that.

At least that’s what she’d been saying – maybe that’s why they kept having to reshoot the lines.

“You ready to go, Emma?” The voice – Elsa – yelled from the other side of the studio. Emma nodded quickly, fingers moving away from her cheeks to rub her temples quickly. Her head was killing her.

“Yeah, yeah,” Emma mumbled, nodding again like it was her own personal confirmation. “Let’s do this.”

Elsa called _now_ and Emma stepped back up to stove, brandishing the spatula in her hand like it was a baton she was using to direct some sort of cooking-themed marching band and hit the line perfectly.

She flipped the eggs in the pan in front of her of her to prove her point, talking about how to tell it was done and when to add the salt and how to make sure you didn’t overcook your yolks. She went on perfectly for several minutes, moving around the kitchen – it was horribly over-themed, meant to look like something out of 1963 and Emma would have fought for a redesign if it hadn’t become a _thing_ when the show first started getting popular – and she smiled into the camera before Elsa yelled cut ten minutes later.

“That was perfect, Emma,” Elsa said, leaning around the camera with a grin on her face. “You fell right back into your stride there.”

Emma didn’t say anything, just nodded again and ignored the dull pain that seemed to have taken up residence behind her left eye.

Ruby walked back onto the set, a wary look on her face and her hands lifted in surrender. “We should be good on the episode,” she said.

“Should be?”

“Are.”

“Yuh huh.”

“Ok, come on, talk to me,” Ruby sighed. “I know you’re mad. I can see it. And if that wasn’t enough, the storming off in the elevator lobby would have done it. You have to believe me, if I could have gotten you out of this I would have, but I think it could be really good for you. And for the show.”

Emma crossed her arms and leaned against the side of the counter. “What are you talking about?”

“You can’t tell me you haven’t considered the possibilities here.”

Emma pressed her lips together tightly and shrugged, raising her eyebrows and making a face. Ruby scowled at her, eyes flashing and Emma braced herself for the _talk_.

Ruby Lucas walked into La Grenouille three years before, ordered the most expensive meal on the menu, then demanded to meet whoever cooked it. The chef had come out of the kitchen – all pomp and circumstance and lies – and Ruby refused to believe that someone with a mustache like that could cook something as delicious as this.

He hadn’t.

Emma had.

Ruby yelled and argued and refused to accept reason until she took it upon herself to march into the kitchen, pressing by a slightly scandalized wait staff to peer at Emma through her work station, a near-woflish grin on her face. “I’m going to make you a star,” she promised.

As far as introductions went, it was fairly memorable.

Fast forward to now and Ruby had made good on that promise – setting Emma up, first, with appearances on some of the more established network star’s shows and building up a devoted fanbase that practically demanded a cookbook two years ago.

Emma wrote it and it sold – much to her surprise. No one else was surprised. There were plenty of _I told you so’s_ to go around, but it wasn’t until Emma got that very first check that it actually seemed real.

It seemed even more real when she and Henry moved into a two-bedroom in Tribeca.

Since then, Ruby had been unstoppable. She got Emma her own show on the network, fought Zelena about guest-judging the cooking competitions and reality shows the station was gearing towards and made sure that she still got to publish a cookbook once a year.

She also did her best to try and make sure Emma got to cook Henry dinner as much as possible.

Emma appreciated that the most.

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” Emma sighed, hopping up onto the counter as she spoke.

“Emma,” Ruby sighed and it was obvious she was doing her best to keep her voice even. “I know this competition thing isn’t for you and they’re going to make you do talking heads and I know _that_ isn’t for you, but this could be good for the show. And the fanbase and sales of just about everything that has your name plastered on it. If you’re visible, people are going to see you, they’re going to be interested, they’re going to want to watch your show – without having to share you with three other chefs. The numbers will go up and we’ll go back to a normal timeslot that won’t make me want to rip my hair out.”

Oh.

Oh. That made sense.

Damn.

Now she didn’t just have to beat Killian Jones, Emma had to play the game too.

Oh.

“That’s a really good point,” Emma mumbled, kicking her legs out in front of her.

Ruby widened her eyes and smiled pointedly, jumping up next to Emma. “I know it is,” she said, not even trying to mask the confidence in her voice. “That’s why they pay me the big bucks.”

“Of course.”

“It’s going to be fine, Emma,” Ruby promised. “And anyway, it’s only five shows. They tape every two months and it runs like a week later and then it’s over. You don’t have to think about it again.”

“That’s true.”

“Plus,” Ruby added, voice dropping an octave or two. “It doesn’t hurt that your competition isn’t particularly bad looking.”

Emma groaned, pressing her hands flat into the countertop and rolling her head back dramatically. “You look like Henry,” Ruby laughed.

“Henry would react better than this.”

“That’s a very good point.”

“Speaking of good points, how did you know him?” Emma asked suddenly, head snapping back up as she realized she might not actually want the answer to that question.

Ruby laughed loudly, the sound of it bouncing off the walls of the now-empty studio and Emma bit her lip in anticipation. “I went to his restaurant once,” she said. “About eight million years ago on a date.”

Well, that wasn’t the answer Emma had been expecting.

“What?”

Ruby grinned at her and nodded, that same confident told you so smile on her face. “How do you think you get to be an Iron Chef, Emma? You don’t just walk onto set and decree it to be. There’s actually some talent involved and, I promise you, he’s incredibly talented. There’s a rumor he’s been thinking about opening another restaurant farther uptown.”

“What?” Emma repeated. She couldn’t come up with anything else to say.

“How did you think this worked?”

“I just figured he walked into the office one day and charmed his way on with a smirk and one run of his fingers through his hair. I’d bet people just fall over at that, ready and willing to do whatever he asks.”

“Nah, that’s just you.”

“Shut up.”

“He’s a really good chef.”

“Where’s the first restaurant?”

“Like three blocks away from your apartment.”

Emma would have laughed at the irony of it all if she could figure out how to actually make any noise. Instead she just kind of grunted and sighed at the same time and pointedly ignored Ruby’s stare.

“You know, you should consider watching some of your network’s own shows,” she said. “Killian’s really good at what he does. Dor and I have a reservation there next week for our anniversary.”

“You’re going to his restaurant for your anniversary? I could have made you food, you guys could have stayed in.”

“Not all of us enjoy sitting in our apartment every night,” Ruby said and Emma would have been a fool not to hear the note of accusation in her producer’s voice. “Some of us actually going out in this great, big city we live in.”

“I have a kid,” Emma pointed out – not the first time she’d made this argument.

“Who would not mind seeing his mother happy.”

“I am happy!”

“Yuh huh”

“What more could I possibly want?”

Ruby stared at her, the look cutting through Emma like one of the ridiculously expensive knives in the drawers underneath her. She held her ground.

They’d done this plenty of times already.

And every time Emma refused to budge.

She was nothing if not stubborn – and very good at cooking.

Emma wasn’t lying – she really was happy and as far as she was concerned, she absolutely did not need anything or anyone besides Henry. But then, of course, she’d see Ruby and Dorothy and hear about their next reservation at some absurdly new and cool restaurant or she’d watch the way her brother hovered over Mary Margaret whenever she moved, determined to not let her exert herself – which at three months pregnant and getting ready for a classroom of third graders was a very real possibility – and Emma would be so chock-full of jealousy and want she was almost positive her skin was turning green.

“What?” Emma sighed, sliding off the counter and crossing her arms.

“Relax, mom,” Ruby groaned. “I”m not condemning your whole life.”

“Only parts of it.”

“Only the parts I know I can fix.”

“And that includes my show’s ratings?”

“Especially your show’s ratings.”

Emma shook her head. She needed better ratings. The line for autographs and photo ops could stretch 20 blocks every other night, but if the show didn’t do well then there was no point to any of this.

“I’ll pick a charity later tonight and you can tell Zelena I’ll do it and play the part and go to all the promotional events.”

“How do you know there are going to be promotional events?”

“Please,” Emma scoffed. “There are always promotional events.”

Ruby grinned at her. “Just gives us an excuse to make sure you get to spend extra time with your very attractive fellow network stars.”

She made a face at Emma, jumping back onto the floor with the kind of balance that a person wearing five-inch heels shouldn’t possess. Emma rolled her eyes, but Ruby's grin just widened. “You know I’m right,” she muttered, sing-songing the words in Emma’s ears.

“About which one? There are three of them.”

“Any of them. Take your pick.”

“You’re impossible, you know that. It’s a wonder I let you around my kid.”

“Hey,” Ruby muttered sharply, throwing a glare Emma’s direction. “Your kid loves me. And I’m a fantastic influence. I helped him with his homework when he came to the studio the other day. You should probably be thanking me.”

“Yeah, I heard about that. You helped a lot, talking about the new fall season on the major networks. He’s well-versed in the plotlines of that fairy tale show you’re obsessed with.”

“There are a lot of them!”

“Of course there are.”

“We did do math too.”

“I know you did,” Emma smiled, reaching her hand forward to grab Ruby’s forearm and squeezing it lightly. “You’re not the worst influence in the world.”

“Thanks for that glowing recommendation.”

“You want to come over for dinner later?”

Ruby shook her head quickly. “Nah, Dor’s got a show opening later tonight and I’ve got to get home and change. Spend some time with Henry, Emma. It’s, well, it’s going to get kind of crazy kind of quickly around here. He deserves a night with his mom.”

“So sentimental.”

Ruby rolled her eyes, pulling her arm out of Emma’s grasp and nudging her shoulder. “Go,” she said forcefully. “Make something good for dinner.”

“I only ever make good things for dinner.”

“I mean kid things. Make him a kid thing.”

Emma reached behind her back to untie the laces of her apron and tossed the fabric on the counter  – only feeling a little bit bad that there was someone out there whose job it was to clean up after her – and started walking towards the door before Ruby could mock any other part of her life.

“And pick a charity!” she called as Emma pushed open the door, stepping back into the hallway and desperately trying not to let it get to her.

Emma fit her key in the lock of her front door nearly a half an hour later, the sound of laughter falling into the hallway before she’d even walked into the living room.

Three heads snapped up towards her as Emma closed the door behind her, toeing out of her shoes and dropping her bag next to the small table next to her. “Mom!” Henry cried immediately, jumping off the couch as the sound of a discarded x-box controller crashed to the ground.

“Hey kid,” Emma said, arms wrapping around him instinctively. “How was school?”

“Awful.”

“And why’s that?”

“There’s a note on the counter,” another voice interjected and Emma glanced up to find her brother leaning against the entrance to the kitchen with a smug smile on his face.

Emma rounded on Henry, eyes wide and lips set in a very thin line. He looked nervous, taking a step back quickly. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Is it the hair thing?”

“It’s absolutely the hair thing,” David answered, earning a glare from Emma. He didn’t miss a beat – smile still plastered on his face – as his wife joined the fray, leaning up against him while she brushed her hands on her jeans.

“It’s not a big deal, Emma,” Mary Margaret promised. “Honestly. If it was, I would have told you before. And the school knows you’re busy. They get it.”

“Then why are they sending multiple notes?” Emma sighed, fingers carding through the hair at the nape of Henry’s neck.

“Because it’s a great, big fancy school and they don’t have anything better to do?” David asked, a small laugh now joining the smile. Emma’s entire body rolled in sarcastic response and Henry shook under her, laughing as well.

“Hey,” Mary Margaret muttered, hitting his chest slightly with her hand. “That great, big fancy school pays for half our bills.”

“And educates your nephew,” Emma added.  

“I care about both of those things,” David promised, walking towards Emma and Henry with an almost-serious look on his face. “I’m just saying that sending two notes in the span of one week about the length of the kid’s hair seems a bit like overkill.”

He reached out to ruffle Henry’s hair for good measure and Emma sighed loudly, the rush of family around her settling into her heart.

David Nolan might be – aside from Henry – the most important person in Emma’s life.

He’d found her.

She’d been 12 years old and scared and alone and absolutely starving, wandering around Portland after running away from the latest foster home she’d been shipped to a few days before. And David had walked right up to her, spotting her in the corner of the alley with her hands wrapped around her knees and told her to come home with him.

His mom was around the corner. She’d get her some food.

Emma accepted – and then she never left.

It took forever – years of legal battles and court appearances and meetings with half a dozen different social workers – but, eventually, Mrs. Nolan adopted Emma and, suddenly, the girl who never had a family had stumbled into so much love she didn’t know what to do with it all.

And then Mary Margaret had shown up when Emma was 13 – and that love multiplied by approximately 800.

They let her stay in New York with them.

They supported her crazy culinary scheme. Emma had only just finished paying back David – he’d fronted her the money to go to school when she got out of jail.

And they never once questioned her plans or her dreams or how she never went out on the weekends anymore.

More often than not, they stayed with her and Henry on the weekends.

They were their own family, a mini-sun of positivity and happiness that Emma’s entire world revolved around.

“It does seem like a pretty ridiculous rule,” Mary Margaret agreed. Henry made a face that screamed _see, mom_ and Emma shook her head. “Although, if it’s a huge deal, I can probably trim it later tonight.”

“Yes,” Emma said immediately. “As soon as we eat.” Henry groaned loudly, rolling his shoulders and marching back to the couch like he’d just been informed he was going up against the firing squad.

That, of course, didn’t stop him from picking up the controller and playing again as soon as he sank onto the cushion. It took him about five seconds of killing zombies – or whatever that game was about – before Henry realized he hadn’t asked what the great, big important news of the day was.

His head snapped towards Emma and she smiled patiently, crossing her arms and raising her eyebrows in response. “What’s the matter, kid?” she asked.

“What was the news?” he asked, voice rushing over the words like he couldn’t get them out of his mouth fast enough. “Was it big? Super exciting? Are you getting a new show?”

“Whoa, whoa kid, relax,” Emma laughed, walking into the living room and sitting down next to him, propping her feet up on the coffee table in front of her.

“You’re getting a new show?” David asked.

“No,” Emma answered and Henry groaned again. “I’m not getting a new show. But maybe my old timeslot back. As long as I can play by the rules.”

“What rules?” Henry muttered, putting the controller back down carefully. Ah, Emma thought, they’d reached the important part of the conversation. “Is it a game?”

“Kind of.”

“Spit it out, Emma,” David sighed.

She stuck her tongue out at him and heard Mary Margaret laugh in the background. She settled onto the side of the couch, David’s arm slinking around her waist quickly, like he was trying to make sure she didn’t fall over. “I’m fine,” she mumbled. “Feet on the ground and everything.”

“You guys want to hear the news or you want to continue to be disgustingly adorable?” Emma asked.

“The news, obviously,” David said.

“They want me to do a competition, on the network. Like against other stars.”

“Like an all-star game?” Henry asked quickly, eyes going wide.

“Kind of like that, yeah.”

“What kind of competition?” Mary Margaret asked, swinging her legs over the couch to rest her feet on top of David’s knees. He glared at her and she ignored him without batting an eyelash. “Like one of those reality shows?”

“Almost all of them, actually,” Emma answered. “It’s like a year-long thing. For charity. There are four of us. We all compete on four of the network’s biggest competition shows, the, like, ridiculously popular ones, and then, at the end, there’s some sort of grand prize competition for $50,000.”

“$50,000?” Henry repeated, practically screeching the word in Emma’s ear. “Seriously?”

“For charity, kid.” Henry’s shoulders slumped and Emma laughed softly, tugging on the bottom of his hair again. “It could be good though,” she added, earning a curious glance from both David and Mary Margaret. “You know for the show? Exposure and stuff like that.”

“That sounds like Ruby talking,” David pointed out.

“She made a convincing argument.”

“And who exactly are you going to be competing against?”

“Graham Humbert, Belle French and some guy name Killian something. Ruby said he was an Iron Chef?”

“He is,” Mary Margaret said and Emma’s head snapped up at her. “He wins like every time he’s on the show.”

“Why does everyone in the world know who this guy is except for me?”

Mary Margaret shrugged. “Don’t you watch your network’s shows?”

“I kind of hate Iron Chef,” Emma admitted softly, ducking her eyes like she’d just given herself up for murder. “Ruby said he owns his own restaurant too. It’s supposedly three blocks away.”

“The Jolly Roger,” Mary Margaret said simply. Emma bit back a groan and her sister-in-law smiled sympathetically. “Ruby’s right. It’s pretty close actually. I’ve wanted to go for months. It’s constantly packed though.”

“I’ve walked by that place a million and two times,” Emma said. “It’s just a bar isn’t it?”

“Used to be.”

“And now?”

“It’s a ridiculously popular restaurant with a chef that, apparently, knows what he’s doing,” Mary Margaret said simply. “And has an army of fans that might actually rival yours, Emma.”

“What?”

Mary Margaret smiled at her, crossing her arms like she’d won some sort of argument Emma didn’t realize they were having.

She hadn’t been there from the start, but Mary Margaret had always been ridiculously good at reading Emma. It drove her insane. And worked perfectly in situations like this when Emma wasn’t particularly interested in asking a string of questions that weren’t appropriate in front of her brother and 12-year-old kid.

Mary Margaret widened her eyes at Emma, an unspoken agreement to send a link to The Jolly Roger’s Facebook page later that night.

“So,” David said, interjecting when he realized what was going on between his wife and his sister. Henry was playing the video game agian. “When do you start this whole thing?”

“Like a week. I told Ruby I’d pick my charity later on tonight too.”

“What you thinking about?”

Emma shrugged. “I have no idea,” she answered honestly. “I thought about a dozen different ones on the train home and all of them are like some kind of flashing neon sign that reads, ‘look at me, I’m a single mom.’”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Yes.”

David shot her a look, but Emma could tell, he realized the conversation was over. And it was. Just like the rehashed argument with Ruby, this was something they’d both talked about plenty of times before.

And every time Emma resolutely refused to let her public persona acknowledge her private one. Henry deserved the perfect childhood – chock-full of video games and school and whatever else he wanted – and that perfect childhood wouldn’t be possible with a spotlight shining on him. Or Emma.

That was the story she’d stuck with since she first set foot on set and even now, faced with some sort of all-star status on the network, Emma wasn’t going to open up any door that would lead someone to Henry.

“What about something food related?” Mary Margaret asked, resting her hand on David’s shoulder. Emma saw the tension practically fall off him and shot her sister-in-law an appreciative glance.

“You don’t think that’s a bit too on the nose?” Emma said, looking up at the TV when a zombie yelled in horror at having its limbs cut off. “Jeez, Henry, what is this? Why are we letting you play this game?”

“It’s a good game, mom,” he said, not taking his eyes off the screen.

“Well, five more minutes and then we’re going to make dinner,” she said, doing her best to sound like an authority figure. He nodded quickly, barely paying any attention to her as his fingers danced over the controller in his hands.

“You could do something with the precinct,” David suggested. “You know they do all that work for the city during the holidays. The coat drive and PAL and all of that. That could be good. And it’s not exactly letting people into your life.”

Emma considered the suggestion for a moment. She didn’t want to admit it, but he was right. God, she hated when David was right. And he was right all the time.

No one would know about him – he had a different last name, after all – and it was a good cause and it wasn’t quite on the nose as a food charity.

“Yeah, yeah,” Emma said. “I like that idea actually. I think that’s good. I’ll e-mail Ruby after we eat and cut Henry’s hair.”

“Mom,” he groaned and Emma couldn’t suppress the smile at the sound.

“Don’t think I forgot kid.”

“Or me,” Mary Margaret added.

“You guys are the worst.”

“Yeah, adults who care about you and want to make sure you don’t get in trouble at school,” Emma laughed, pushing herself up the couch and making her way back towards the kitchen. “That’s the absolute worst.”

“What are you doing?” David asked, leaning around Mary Margaret to follow Emma’s path out of the living room.

“I’m going to make dinner. I haven’t been home in a couple of days. Figured I’d make something good.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

The doorbell rang and Emma glanced at the door, questions written across her face. “What did you do?” she asked as the doorbell rang again. “And why the hell are they so impatient?”

“We ordered pizza!” Henry yelled, jumping off the couch and practically sprinting towards the door. He reached into Emma’s bag – still in its spot on the floor – yanking out her wallet and swinging open the door in front of him.

“Are you kidding me?” Emma asked, crossing her arms. David smiled at her sheepishly and raised his hands in mock-surrender. “I’m a trained chef, David. I can cook dinner for my own family.”

“And you can also take a day off. Come on, Em, eat the pizza. You know you want to.”

She did.

And David knew it.

Of course he did.

“Yeah, come on mom,” Henry said, sliding back into the kitchen on his socked feet and putting the pizza on the counter. “It’s from Del Giorno’s too. You love Del Girono’s.”

“You love Del Giorno’s,” David repeated and Emma rolled her eyes.

She did.

“Fine,” she sighed, reaching to grab four plates out of the cupboard in front of her. “But as soon as we finish this pizza, Mary Margaret is cutting your hair, ok, Henry?”

He nodded, grabbing a slice out of the box without another word as David mussed his hair again and Mary Margaret hummed in agreement.

Emma smiled at the scene in front of her – so domestic and so perfect, her 18-year-old self would have laughed in her face if she tried to explain that this was her future. Ruby was wrong. She didn’t need to change anything.

She had everything she could want right here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so blown away by the response to this! You all are fantastic. We're going to go with some kind of Tuesday/Friday update schedule (hopefully) from here on out with a bit of alternating POV, but next week we'll be back to our regularly scheduled program of everyone interacting with everyone else. 
> 
> A huge, huge, huge THANK YOU to @laurnorder who is the best and has read just an absolutely ridiculous amount of my words this week. 
> 
> And if you're interested in flailing with me, I'm always down for that: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	3. Chapter 3

“Don’t you have a home?”

Killian walked into The Jolly Roger later that night – head still feeling as if it was going to actually snap in half – and crossed through the dining room to make his way towards the bar that ran the length of the right wall.

He was only a few feet away – and the rum that was stocked behind it – when something very small and very excited and very solid ran into his leg. Killian glanced down, smile tugging on his mouth before he could stop himself, or consider how much he needed that rum.

He found, as he expected, Roland Locksley wrapped tightly around his leg, hands gripping his jeans as if he were nervous Killian would disappear if he let go of him.

“Hi,” Roland yelled, voice impressively loud despite being muffled against Killian’s jeans. He stepped on Killian’s shoe, determined to get him to respond faster. Killian bit back a groan – who knew a six-year-old could cause so much pain with one move – and glared at Robin’s still-turned back at the the end of the bar.

“Hi who, Roland?” Robin asked, not taking his eyes away from the very large glass of water in his hand.

“Hi Uncle Killian!” He squeezed his hands tighter and Killian glanced down at the kid plastered to him, reaching his right hand across his body to muss Roland’s hair. “Dad was wondering when you’d get here. He said you had to cook.”

“That is true,” Killian admitted, trying to move his leg to get Roland off of him. The six-year-old got the message, hands dropping to his side as he took a step back and Killian crouched down to meet him at eye-level. “You want to help?”

Roland’s eyes lit up and Killian knew he was grinning like a fool now – it also got Robin to turn around. “You can’t bring him back there, Killian, Regina will kill you.”

“So don’t tell her.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“I know you won’t do that. There’s a difference.”

Robin tilted the glass in his hand, downing the rest of his water in one gulp and squeezed his eyes shut tightly as his son sprinted back towards him, colliding against his leg the same way he had with Killian.

“Relax, mate,” Robin laughed softly, tugging Roland up off the floor until he was sitting on the counter of the bar. His legs dangled over the edge, kicking out dangerously and Killian felt the swift stab of jealousy sweep across him at the sight.

It didn’t happen much anymore.

Hadn’t in awhile.

But today hadn’t been exactly been a normal day.

He couldn’t get Emma Swan out of his head. Much like the headache he had. He tried not to draw parallels to that.

She didn’t know who he was. Killian wasn’t exactly famous or particularly full of himself – at least not really – but it was rare to find someone in the network offices who hadn’t heard or him or wasn’t consistently impressed with his food.

Emma Swan didn’t know about either – probably didn’t care about either.

And it fascinated him.

More to the point, she fascinated him. All blonde hair and sharp eyes and a fierce desire to prove herself despite her assurances to Ruby that she wasn’t interested in the competition. Emma Swan wanted to win and Killian Jones could tell.

So, he was frustrated and still hungover and if there was one thing Killian didn’t particularly need right now it was the picture-perfect family Regina and Robin had carved out for themselves sitting at his bar like some sort of flashing neon light telling him what he couldn’t ever have.

Not anymore.  

Killian took a deep breath and, finally, walked back behind the bar, grabbing the bottle from one of the shelves underneath and looping one of his fingers over a glass. He filled the entire thing and ignored Robin’s pointed stare.

“You think you could control yourself in front of my son?” Robin asked.

Killian drank in response.

“What’s that?” Roland said, suddenly interested in Killian again. “Can I have some of that?”

“No,” Robin and Killian answered at the same time.

Roland pushed his lower lip forward – the perfect pout and Killian was nearly positive he’d fine-tuned that from watching Regina – and widened his eyes meaningfully at him. “What are you going to cook, Uncle Killian?”

“Cheeseburgers.”

“Cheeseburgers?!” Roland pulled his legs up over the bar, spinning on top of the counter in a move that Killian had certainly not helped him perfect several months before. “Really? I love cheeseburgers.”

“I know you do,” Killian smiled. “That’s why I need you to help me.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Well, what do cheeseburgers have to have for them to be good?”

“Cheese!”

Killian raised one eyebrow, glancing at a very clearly amused Robin, before turning his full attention back at the very enthused first-grader in front of him. “Smart kid,” he muttered, resting both of his hands on Roland’s shoulders and staring at him like he was about to give him the most important job in the world. “So, if cheeseburgers need cheese and you know that, then what do you say to helping me pick out what cheese we use for dinner tonight?”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. I think you can pick the perfect one. We’ll have the best burgers in the city tonight.”

“Cheeseburgers,” Roland corrected quickly, beaming at Killian.

Killian nodded seriously. “You’re right. Of course. Cheeseburgers.” He squeezed Roland’s shoulders again and spun him back towards Robin. “Lift your hands, mate.”

Roland’s eyes lit up at the nickname – only Robin and Killian called him that – and did as he was told, already excited at what was going to happen next. Killian grabbed both of Roland’s hands in his right while Robin grabbed his son’s feet, lifting him up over the counter of the bar. They swung him for a few moments – something they’d done since he was little – and Roland’s entire body practically shook with the sound of his laughter.

“What do you two think you’re doing with my son?” Regina asked, voice snapping through the otherwise empty restaurant and both men’s heads snapped towards her. She took a step into the dining room, eyes flashing daggers at them and Killian bit his lip tightly, eyes darting towards a slightly terrified Robin.

“Relax your majesty,” Killian said, not letting go of Roland’s hands. “He’s fine. This is his favorite thing, anyway.”

“Excuse me?”

“Thanks a lot,” Robin muttered.

“Of course, that’s the one thing you don’t tell her,” Killian sighed. “Alright, put him down.”

“No, no, no,” Roland objected quickly, voice picking up a few octaves as he wiggled in the air. Killian’s left hand darted out on instinct steadying Roland’s body. The kid didn’t notice, but both Robin and Regina did, respective eyes narrowing as they watched Killian jerk the prosthetic back behind his back as soon as he realized what he’d done.

“Come on Gina,” Roland continued, completely and delightfully oblivious to the silent conversation his parents were staging over him. “Uncle Killian’s right, this is my favorite. Let him swing me one more time.”

Regina stepped farther into the restaurant, lips still pursed and Killian wasn’t positive he was breathing anymore.

His head was killing him.

“Fine,” she sighed. “One more time.”

“Yes! Do it, Uncle Killian! Do it, Dad! Come on, come.”

Killian laughed, meeting Robin’s gaze over his son, and smiled, moving his hand back and forth until Roland Locksley was swinging over the top of his bar. It lasted about five seconds – which was much longer than Killian expected it to be allowed – before Regina put an end to it, grabbing the side of Roland’s shirt and effectively stopping his movement.

“Alright,” she said, but the smile on her face was enough to prove she wasn’t entirely opposed to what she’d walked in on. “Come on, Rol, you’re going to get sick if you keep swinging around like that.”

Killian and Robin laid him back down on the counter and he was still laughing when he sat back up, shaking his head quickly. “It’s my favorite.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“It’s fun, Gina,” Roland continued, undeterred by the short sound of his soon-to-be-step-mother’s voice. She was fighting off a smile again – Killian could tell. So could Robin, who pulled his fiancé flush against his side and kissed her temple.

“Gross.” Killian wasn’t sure who’d said it first – him or Roland. It was that kind of day, he was definitely on the same wavelength as a six-year-old at this point. And he absolutely thought displays of domestic affection in his restaurant were gross.

Roland reached forward, hands grabbing for Regina and she wrapped her arms around him with practiced ease, sliding him across the counter until he was pressed against her, hands gripping her very sensible black blazer.

She kissed the top of his head quickly, flattening his hair out of habit and glanced up at Killian, practically daring him to say gross. He didn’t. He squeezed his eyes shut instead and took another drink of his previously-forgotten rum.

“Hey, Rol,” Regina said softly, leaning back from the kid clinging to her. “You think you can give me and dad a couple of minutes to talk to Uncle Killian?”

Roland’s head tilted and Killian was fairly positive his eyes had gotten wider too – smart kid – but he nodded anyway. “Yeah, I’ve got to pick out cheese anyway.”

“What?”

“Cheese,” Roland repeated. “For the cheeseburgers.”

“It’s a very important job,” Killian added.

Regina stared at him speculatively, narrowing her eyes in a way that made Killian very nervous – usually that kind of a look meant he had to do something or appear somewhere or sign autographs. He wasn’t in the mood for any of it.

“See, Gina,” Roland said, inching precariously close towards the edge of the counter. Regina pulled him the rest of the way, wrapping her hands around his waist until his feet were flat on the floor.

“Go find, Eric, mate,” Killian said, leaning towards Roland on the other side of the counter. “He’ll help you pick out the cheese.” Roland nodded seriously and sprinted towards the other side of the restaurant. “And don’t go in the kitchen!”

“I know!” Roland yelled, not even bothering to turn around as he ran.

“Did you pick a charity yet?” Regina asked as soon as Roland was out of earshot.

“It’s been four hours, Regina,” Killian sighed, fingers toying with the neck of the rum bottle in front of him. “Give me a break.”

She stared at him, raising her eyebrows as she reached forward and grabbed the bottle, putting it effectively out of his reach. “Unnecessary,” he muttered.

Regina scoffed and Robin muttered something under his breath, wrapping his hand around the back of her neck and squeezing slightly. “This is a big deal, Killian,” she said.

“What is?”

“Killian,” Regina groaned and he smirked at the tone of her voice. He even enjoyed the frustrated look on Robin’s face. “You know what.”

“I do.”

“So you need to pick a charity.”

“I will.”

“Right now.”

“You are the absolute worst, you know that?”

“I am trying to help.”

This time it was Killian who scoffed, rolling his eyes so hard it actually hurt.

She was. He knew she was. Because Regina was tough and all-business and incredibly determined to get Killian his own show on the network, but she also cared and Killian knew it.

“You know what a stint on the network like this could do for you?” Regina asked, finally sitting in one of the chairs. Killian shook his head. “It could get you a show and a whole slew of merchandise and something else for all those ridiculous fans to swoon over other than reruns of old IC episodes.”

“I never wanted all of that.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not a good thing,” Regina sighed. It was an old argument. An ancient argument. One Killian didn’t plan on changing his stance on.

He didn’t want to be a star.

He didn’t want to be famous.

He wanted to cook. He could control cooking. He could control the food and the ingredients and he was, rather unexpectedly, really, really good at it.

After the accident, Killian didn’t know what way was up, let alone how to navigate his way through a kitchen, but he needed to figure it out – he had to eat after all – and he’d found an old cookbook at a thrift store on 12th Street.

It was four dollars.

He had five in his wallet.

It seemed like fate.

Killian learned that cookbook cover to cover over the next six months and started to be able to feed himself. He still, however, needed a job.

And he found one at The Jolly Roger.

There weren’t many bars in the city who would have given a washed up, one-handed, ex-Navy a job opportunity without any experience when it came to mixing drinks, but Norm Drietand wasn’t a normal guy.

He gave Killian a job and the promise that it “wasn’t much more than taking the tops off beer bottles.” Two years later, Killian was coming up with his own mixed drinks behind the bar and The Jolly Roger had become something of a thing.

And then, as with most things, it disappeared.

Norm got sick and he was gone before Killian had really even begun to process what losing Norm would do to him. He didn’t cope well with loss.

He drank.

And working in a bar wasn’t exactly the best breeding ground for that kind of response.

But then, just like he had before, Norm went and surprised him – he left Killian the bar. The whole fucking thing. The only thing the man had in the entire world and he’d given it to Killian.

It took five days for him to decide he was going to turn it into a restaurant.

Killian walked into the bank with nothing but an idea and Liam’s pension and the thought that maybe this could happen.

It had. And it worked.

The restaurant was popular. People liked it and they liked the food and they liked him. And sometimes he had to wonder if this was all just some weird, strange dream that he would, eventually, wake up from – that he’d find himself back in a hospital bed with the sound of the machines ringing in his ears and the doctors telling him that they did everything they could to save his hand.

It hadn’t happened yet, Killian was just kind of terrified of what would happen when it did.

He was constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Killian,” Regina said sharply, shaking Killian, rather brutally, out of his brief walk down memory lane. “You want to listen to me?”

“I am.”

“Sure,” she continued and Killian would have sighed at the meaningful glance she shot at Robin. “What was I talking about then?”

“This being a good thing?”

Regina’s shoulders sagged and Robin laughed, quickly trying to turn the sound into a cough. No one believed him. “See,” Killian said, leaning across the bar and grabbing the rum out of Regina’s hand. “I was totally listening.”

“So then you agree with me? This is a good thing.”

“I never said that.”

“You don’t think it’s a good thing?” Robin asked, suddenly joining the conversation. He pushed his empty glass towards Killian, who raised his eyebrows expectantly. “Water,” Robin said pointedly. “Please.”

“Responsible asshole,” Killian muttered, grabbing the glass and filling it with water anyway.

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“I know I didn’t.”

“Why are you avoiding this?” Regina asked. “And martini. Dry. With three olives.”

“That won’t fit in the glass.”

“You’re an Iron Chef. Get creative.”

“You better tip well.”

“When I get you your own show, you can consider that the tip.”

“I don’t want my own show.”

“See, that’s what I don’t understand.”

Killian took a swig of rum – straight out of the buttle – and Regina sighed dramatically. Robin tried to put his hand back on her shoulder, but she brushed him off quickly, eyes zeroing in on Killian with an intensity that nearly made him step back.

“I’m serious, Killian, I don’t understand. It doesn’t make any sense. You’re good at what you do, people genuinely enjoy watching you on TV. You could be making a killing. _We_ could be making a killing and you won’t give the network’s execs the time of day when they try to pitching something to you.”

“Mostly I’m just avoiding you.”

“And yet I keep showing up in your restaurant.”

“That’s because your fiancé won’t ever go home.”

“We like your food,” Robin muttered, lips barely lifting off the glass in his hand.

“You’re not helping,” Killian sighed. Robin shrugged and tapped the side of the glass, waiting for Killian to grab the nozzle from behind the bar and refill. “You’re also going to drown yourself.”

“That’s entirely your fault,” Regina said pointedly, staring at him over her own drink. “And would explain why you’ve been so snippy today?”

“Snippy?” Killian repeated, voice rising of its own accord. “I’ve never been snippy in my life.”

“You are. Currently.”

“I’m not sure what you want from me, Regina.”

“Several things.” She put her glass down slowly, lifting her three fingers up, the glow from the restaurant’s overhead lights reflecting off her ring. “One, I want to know why you got Robin so drunk last night. Two, I want to know why you’re being so snippy now and throughout the day and, three,” she wiggled her pointer finger for extra emphasis, “I want to know why you were trying to smirk at Emma Swan after the meeting this afternoon.”

“What?” Robin coughed, eyes wide at as he gaped at Killian. Killian, for his part, glared at Regina and did his best to brush Robin off, crossing his arms tightly over his chest and pressing his lips together tightly.

“Yup,” Regina answered, popping the letters off her very red lips. “Nearly fell out of his chair when she walked into the meeting.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Robin sputtered. “Emma Swan? You mean the one with the show on the weekend? That makes all that fancy French food?”

“One and the same.”

“How do you know who she is?” Killian asked, staring at Robin in surprise.

“Don’t you watch the shows on your own network?”

“Don’t even bother asking that, of course he doesn’t,” Regina said.

“I’m literally standing right here.”

Regina shrugged, tilting her head slightly. “So?” she asked, sipping the last remnants of the martini in her glass and pulling off one of the olives on the toothpick Killian had haphazardly thrown in there as well. “It’s not like you acknowledged any of my questions. Why should I acknowledge you?”

“Gina,” Robin muttered, falling into Roland’s nickname out of habit. He did it when he was trying to make his fiancé see reason – which, if any of them were being honest with themselves, wasn’t very often, particularly not when she wanted something.

“Nuh uh,” she said, rolling her shoulder to get Robin to move his hand. Killian laughed at the exchange, finally uncrossing his arms and wondering, much like Regina, why he hadn’t answered any of her questions.

He had answers.

He got Robin drunk last night because he wanted to get drunk last night and he hated drinking alone. His hand – or where his hand should have been – had hurt and the bank was giving him a hard time about even asking questions regarding the possibility of expanding the restaurant and he was angry and frustrated and he wanted rum.

Robin had just been an unfortunate participant in that.

And he’d also wanted to complain about Regina. Killian wasn’t going to mention that part though.

He was also, admittedly, being snippy. At first about the hangover and the incredibly early meeting and the demand to be featured as some sort of celebrity chef so the network could drum up consistent ratings throughout the year, but then also because he was absolutely trying to smirk at Emma Swan across the conference room table and it absolutely had not worked.

At all.

It always worked.

Except on Emma Swan. Who, it appeared, was not moved by the smirk or the attempt at playful banter and had absolutely no idea who he was.

The real question, however, and the one that Killian wasn’t actually sure he did have an answer to was why he was trying to smirk at Emma Swan in the first place.

He didn’t know.

And that kind of terrified him.

It wasn’t like he couldn’t talk to women – he could absolutely talk to women – the number of Facebook likes he had on his IC page was a testament to that, but Emma Swan had walked in that conference room and it was like everything shifted. Or something equally absurd.

She was running a million miles a minute and she didn’t want to cook in this stupid competition either and, he wasn’t sure how, but, Killian was positive she hated the term celebrity chef as well.

He wanted to know her.

He wanted her to know him.

He wanted a lot more than he should have after a failed attempt to smirk and five minutes in front of the elevators.

And that was what was making him snippy – because, as much as he might deny it, that’s what always made him snippy – Killian Jones was afraid to want.

“Drop it, Regina,” Killian said after what felt like several hours of silence. “I’ll do the competition – and don’t bother telling me I didn’t have a choice, I know I didn’t. But I’ll do it with a smile on my face and a song in my heart or whatever. I’ll even pick a good charity. Something military and you can spin the whole thing however you want. I just need you to stop asking questions right now, ok?”

Regina stared at him for a beat, eyeing him and the bottle of rum that was only a few inches away from him. And then she nodded. “Ok,” she said softly.

“Just like that?”

“Don’t push your luck, Jones.”

Killian smiled softly at her, breathing for what felt like the first time that entire day. “Uncle Killian! Uncle Killian! Uncle Killian!” Roland screeched, skidding to a stop just in front of the line of chairs in front of the bar and Killian silently thanked a handful of religious figures that he hadn’t collided with them.

“What? What? What?”

Roland huffed at him and Killian leaned his head on his hands, resting his elbows on the bar. “I picked,” he said.

“And?”

“And Eric said we should use mozzarella because it was good on cheeseburgers and that you had a lot of it and you had to use it and,” Roland’s chest heaved as he tried to take a deep breath, determined to explain everything that had happened on the other side of the restaurant in the last ten minutes.

And the sous chef wasn’t wrong – they had a ton of mozzarella in the walk-in. They needed to figure out how to use that. Maybe Killian would make risotto later in the week.

“Breathe, mate,” he laughed, eyeing Roland. “I take it we’re not going to use the mozzarella.”

“No,” Roland said emphatically. Killian glanced at Robin, chuckling at his son’s determination that mozzarella did not belong on a cheeseburger. “I want to use cheddar.”

“Cheddar?”

Roland nodded seriously and Killian pressed his lower lip out slightly, like he was considering his options – as if there were any option except what the six-year-old had picked. “Then we’ll use cheddar.”

“Really?”

“Would I lie to my first mate?”

“No,” Roland said, standing at attention. “Because your first mate is your best friend and your most trusted advisor.”

“Exactly.”

Killian walked back around the bar, saluting Roland as he went and made his way towards the kitchen. He could hear Regina’s heels following him and pointedly ignored her until he, quite literally, ran out of room.

“You can’t come in the kitchen, Regina,” Killian sighed, grabbing an apron from the shelf on the wall and wrapping the ties around his hips several times until he’d worked them back to his front. He leaned his prosthetic against them, wrapping the sides together like a shoelace in a practiced motion that had become second nature.

“I know the rules. And I’m not planning on coming into the kitchen. I wanted to make sure you were actually ok with all of this. The shows and the appearances and your face plasted on network promotions for the next 12 months.”

Killian shrugged. “Did I really have a choice?”

“If I thought it wasn’t an incredible opportunity, of course,” Regina said, leaning against one of the large freezers in the hallway. “I’m only doing this…”

“Because you think it’s best, I know, Regina.”

She twisted her lips and crossed one of her feet over the other, balancing precariously on a single heel. “Do you?”

“I do,” he promised, reaching out quickly to grab her forearm. She softened immediately, arms going back to her side and a quick sigh escaping her lips. “And I appreciate it. Honestly.”

“Well you do keep us fed.”

“Exactly.”

“You’re really going to serve cheeseburgers as your special tonight, though? Aren’t you supposed to be some kind of fancy, top-quality chef?”

Killian laughed loudly, head falling back at the idea that he was fancy, top-quality anything – he’d taught himself how to cook with a four-dollar, thrift-store cookbook after all – and grinned at Regina. “They’re fancy cheeseburgers,” he said. “Super fancy meat.”

“Super. Fancy. Meat.”

“Exactly. We paid a lot of money for that meat, ask your fiancé.”

“Somehow it seems like insider trading to have Robin giving you all his network contacts to stock your restaurant with.”

“Keeps you fed,” Killian pointed out. “And, your son did pick out the cheese we’re going to use tonight, so, take that into account before you knock my very fancy cheeseburgers.”

“I’m not knocking anything. And it’s good practice.”

Killian lowered his eyes in confusion and rocked back on his heels. “What? Practice for what?”

“Chopped, obviously,” Regina said, turning on her very tall, very thin heels before he could come up with an answer. “Maybe we can make this is a thing. Get Rol to keep picking you out ingredients and have you make the daily special on just that.”

Killian didn’t hear the rest of her idea, she was already back in the dining room and he was on his way into the kitchen, mind racing with thoughts of cheeseburgers and daily specials and certainly not Emma Swan.

He didn’t have time for this.

He had a dinner service to cook.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit on the short side again, but we're back to our regularly scheduled mass of words later this week with everybody back together. In the meantime I hope Roland Locksley ruined everyone as much as he ruined me. A huge, huge, thank you to @laurnorder for being the best beta a girl could ask for. And thank you, as always, for every click, comment and kudos. 
> 
> Come flail with me on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	4. Chapter 4

Emma’s face felt heavy. 

It was gross. 

God, she hated sitting in this chair. She hated being poked and prodded and curled. She could do all of this herself. She learned how to use eyeliner when she was 14 – courtesy of a very excited Mrs. Nolan who thought she’d never have the chance with just David in the house – and she didn’t need someone leaning two inches away from her face at God knows what time in the morning to do it for her. 

But she’d also promised Ruby. 

She’d play the game and she’d smile and she’d pose for the promotional stuff they were set to film that day and then she’d win the fucking money. 

And get her timeslot back.

“Which one?” Ruby asked, stepping into the makeup artist’s space and brushing her off without a single word. 

Emma opened her eyes slowly to find her producer standing in front of her with two outfits in her hand, holding them up like she was a model on  _ The Price is Right. _ “What?” Emma mumbled, sitting up straighter in the chair. 

“Which one do you like?”

Emma eyed the choices – she didn’t really like either of them. She couldn’t tell Ruby that, of course, but if Emma had her choice she’d be doing this commercial in jeans and a t-shirt and the boots that were dangerously thin on the soles because of how often she wore them. 

“You’ve got to pick, Emma,” Ruby pressed, shaking the dresses to prove her point. 

Emma sighed and rolled her head, shaking her hair off her shoulders and earning a groan from the tech a few feet away. “Red, obviously,” she said, pointing at the dress on the left. She tried not to sigh at the look of it – themed perfectly to match her over-the-top kitchen with a full skirt and crew-neck and three-quarter sleeves. God, there was a bow on it. 

“I should have figured,” Ruby muttered, tossing the other dress in the unoccupied makeup chair next to Emma. “You always pick the red one.“

“Well, I’m nothing if not consistent.”

“And stubborn.”

Emma ignored that particular jab and glanced at her reflection in the mirror. She looked like a celebrity. She felt like one too if the several pounds of makeup she was wearing were any indication of what a celebrity was supposed to feel like. 

It made her nervous – like there was some sort of expectation she had to live up to. 

Emma wasn’t good at that. She was good at failing to live up to expectations, her criminal record was proof of that. Of course, the other, slightly more reasonable side of her brain argued, David and Mary Margaret hadn’t ever walked away, even after the criminal record. Neither had Mrs. Nolan. And Henry might actually be the most supportive 12-year-old on the face of the entire planet. 

She could do this. 

She needed to do this. 

“I don’t have to cook in that thing do I?” Emma asked, eyeing the dress with trepidation. Ruby sighed, leaning against the makeup counter behind her and shrugged. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re not actually going to make anything. But you’ve got to fake making something. You know, like for the camera. Chop things. Look official.”

“Chop things?”

“Officially.”

Emma laughed under her breath and jumped out of the chair, rubbing off a bit of the makeup caked on her cheeks as she went. She pulled the dress out of Ruby’s hands – with maybe a bit more force than absolutely necessary – and turned towards the dressing room down the hallway. 

“There better not be onions involved in this,” Emma muttered, the sound of her sneakers squeaking down the hallway filling her ears. She heard Ruby’s laughter behind her and focused on the tap of her producer’s heels like it was some kind of metronome that was keeping her steadied. 

“We’ll make Killian cut the onions. Do something Iron Chef-y.”

“Deal,” Emma said emphatically, closing the door behind her and taking a deep breath. It was time to be a celebrity. 

Emma swung open the door five minutes later – careful not to mess up her perfectly constructed low ponytail and heavily-hairsprayed curls – and walked back down the hallway towards the network’s main prep kitchen. 

It was full of people and noise and, possibly, a small tower of cupcakes in the corner. Emma tugged on the waist of her dress and took a deep breath before walking into the metaphorical lion’s den, squinting her eyes slightly when the lights from the half a dozen cameras hit her. 

“It’s all a bit much isn’t it?”

She spun on the spot, coming face-to-face with Iron Chef Killian Jones who was, of course, smirking at her again. 

Emma made a face, ignoring the way his eyes lingered on the cinched waist of her dress, and crossed her arms tightly across her chest, sinking her weight into her heels. He smiled at her, the movement spreading across his face slowly and reaching his eyes and, God, they were blue and Emma knew he realized what she was doing – battle stance. 

“The network’s never been known for keeping things simple,” Emma muttered, pulling her gaze away from his. And landing right on his still-smiling mouth. That was a mistake. 

She pressed her nails into the palm of her hand, leaving tiny crescent-shaped indents in her skin when it finally started to hurt, and did her best to play the role. She was a celebrity. She was a good chef. She didn’t get overwhelmed by anything. 

Least of all some part-time Iron Chef. 

“That is true,” he laughed, running his hand through his hair. 

And that was when she saw it and something clicked – she could practically feel the sound of it in her brain. He didn’t have a left hand. Or, rather, he had a very convincing fake left hand. No wonder he kept it trained behind his back the first time they met. 

She was staring. She knew it. He knew. And he knew that she knew it. 

A million and two questions danced along the tip of her tongue, but mostly she was just impressed. Emma had a hard time cooking on her own sometimes and she had all ten fingers. And if Mary Margaret was right and Killian did own a ridiculously successful restaurant and regularly won Iron Chef, then Emma was certainly impressed. 

He coughed pointedly, ducking his head a bit to get into her line of vision. “Still with me, love?” he asked. 

“Still with you and still not all that interested in your nicknames.”

He chuckled softly, rocking back on his heels and wiggling his eyebrows. “You look nice, by the way,” he said, not meeting her gaze when he spoke. 

It caught her by surprise – not the compliment, Emma was positive a man that called near-strangers love with ease regularly doled out compliments to get what he wanted – but his tone of voice nearly made her breath catch in her throat. 

He sounded honest and earnest and, maybe, a bit nervous. 

Emma chanced a glance at him and he had his hand in his hair again, tugging on a piece of it just behind his ear. “Thanks,” she said softly. “It’s supposed to match my theme or something.”

“You have a theme?”

“Yeah, you know, like on the show? I don’t even know how we landed on it. I think it mostly happened because the network didn’t want to buy us new appliances so we repurposed old stuff to look retro and kitschy or something. And it just kind of stuck.”

He nodded like this was the most serious conversation that either one of them had ever had, smile still on his face. “They’re big on themes here,” Killian said, pointing towards the other two celebrities in their midst. “Rumor has it they’re going to get Graham to skin something alive for his promo.”

Emma laughed loudly, the sound escaping her lips before she could stop herself. And if it didn’t sound so completely foreign, it probably wouldn’t have bothered her as much as it did. “He probably could do it you know,” she added, glancing at Killian out of the corner of her eye. 

“I’ve got no doubt he could, just not so sure we should be promoting that kind of thing on this family show.”

“You’ve got a family to worry about?” Emma asked. She saw Killian’s shoulders tense immediately and squeezed her eyes shut tightly, biting her lip at the inane stupidity of the question. He ran his right hand over his left before bringing his fingers up to rub at the back of his neck. 

“No,” he said simply. 

Emma’s lip was bleeding, she was biting down so hard on it. She rubbed her hands nervously over the front of her dress, flattening out wrinkles that weren’t there, and swallowed so loudly she could hear it in her ears. 

“You think Belle baked all of those cupcakes this morning just to show off or you think they’re from last week’s show?” Emma asked. 

Killian let out a deep breath and his eyes shut lightly. The smile inched back along his face as he, finally, turned towards Emma, taking a step to his right until he was standing in front of her. “Better be from last week or we look like totally unprepared celebrity chefs,” he said and the tension from the previous moment was almost entirely gone. 

“The worst,” Emma agreed. 

He grinned at her and Emma swore she saw something flash across his eyes, but then she blinked – or maybe he blinked – and it was gone. She wasn’t positive what it could have been, something that maybe, almost, resembled longing or want or that interest she was positive she’d seen in the elevator lobby the week before. 

They were staring at each other when Ruby skidded to a stop next to Emma, heels scratching across the linoleum floor. Emma and Killian’s heads both snapped towards the frantic looking producer, eyes wide with whatever had just happened. 

“Where have you been?” Ruby asked to no one in particular.

“I was here,” Emma answered evasively, shrugging at the area around her. 

“You’re not my producer, so I don’t have to answer that,” Killian added, smirk back on his face and eyes darting between Ruby and Emma quickly. 

Emma rolled her eyes, finding herself charmed despite her best efforts not to be, and Ruby sighed. “Regina is on the warpath trying to find you,” she said, staring down Killian, who looked a bit nervous again. “So you should probably go talk to your producer and then maybe we can get this whole thing over with.”

Killian nodded, tugging on that piece of hair again and his hand brushed over Emma’s arm when he walked by her. “I’ll see you in the kitchen, Swan,” he said before walking away. 

Emma didn’t answer, but she knew her mouth was hanging open a bit and she didn’t even have to look at Ruby to know she was beaming at her like she’d just won an Emmy. “Don’t start,” Emma muttered.

“I didn’t say a single word.”

“You were thinking them. I know you were.”

“Pleading the fifth.”

“You’ve got me confused with David. I’m not the cop. You don’t get to plead anything with me.”

“What about pleading for you to get on set? Is that allowed?”

Emma made a noise in the back of her throat, tugging on her dress again self-consciously. “Look who doesn’t want to do this whole thing now,” she said, letting Ruby push her bodily towards the prep kitchen. 

“Look who was spotted away from the group, flirting with Killian Jones. Again.”

“You promised you weren’t going to say a single word.”

“I’m a great, big, giant liar.”

Emma groaned again, but plastered a smile on her face as soon as she was within striking distance of the cameras, falling into the role with relative ease. She was, as per usual, the last one of the group to arrive and Zelena didn’t even bother to glare at her when she made her way into the kitchen, almost looking resigned to being five minutes behind schedule. 

“Alright,” she said, voice rife with authority. “Here’s what we’re going to do. You all are going to showcase some sort of skill for the promo. Belle, stir batter. Graham, cut meat or something. Emma can chop some kind of vegetable. And Killian, do something vaguely Iron Chefy-y.”

Killian’s eyes caught Emma’s over the top of Belle’s head and he smiled at her, mouthing the words Iron Chef-y with the kind of serious look that nearly had her laughing in the middle of this semi-important meeting. 

Zelena didn’t notice – or if she did, she ignored it completely. “We’ll do some one-on-one shots of each of you, the skill ones and then pans that are just body shots. Emma make sure you’re not wearing those gross sneakers,” she muttered as an aside and Emma’s eyes widened a bit in surprise and embarrassment. 

Ruby appeared out of seemingly nowhere with a pair of heels that matched her dress perfectly and Emma didn’t even a chance to wonder where they came from before Killian was by her side, holding his right arm out to her. 

“What are you doing?” Emma muttered, keeping her voice low as Zelena continued to talk.

“Making sure you don’t fall over and kill yourself before you even get to do your body shots.” His voice dropped low with the innuendo he was purposely using and Emma rolled her eyes at him. “And, trust me, you don’t want to put your bare feet on this floor.”

Emma stared at him for a beat, trying to figure out exactly what was going on and how she got back in control of it. He shook his arm slightly to bring her focus back to him and he wasn’t smirking at her when she looked back up. He was smiling – genuinely again – and Emma could feel almost the whiplash between the cocky Iron Chef and this other guy who just seemed like he wanted to help. 

She sighed softly, but put her left hand on his forearm, fingers wrapping around his skin and, God, he was warm. Emma ignored that, lifting one foot up to pull her sneaker off and slide into the provided heels. “So, what?” she asked, talking mostly so she didn’t do something stupid like start to think. “You’re a gentleman now?”

She slid her other foot into the heel and kicked the sneakers out of the camera’s frame – Ruby would pick them up eventually, or someone would – and pulled her fingers away from his arm. He didn’t move. 

He didn’t even blink. 

He just kept smiling and dropped his arm back to his side. 

“I’m always a gentleman,” Killian said softly and the sound of his voice seemed to pierce every single muscle in Emma’s body. She was fairly positive she was still standing, but she wasn’t entirely convinced she hadn’t melted just a bit under his gaze.

“Emma!” Zelena yelled. “If you’re done with your wardrobe and using Killian as some kind of prop, can you get back here so we can finish this?”

Emma nodded quickly, looking away from Killian and walking back to the group before he could say anything else. She could feel him standing behind her – the heat of him practically radiating off his body and his ridiculously white Iron Chef jacket – but Emma kept her eyes trained ahead, avoiding everything except the sound of Zelena’s voice. 

“As I was saying,” Zelena said pointedly, shooting a look Emma’s way and she shrunk a bit at the sound. “Single shots, body shots and then a group shot where you’re all going to look vaguely competitive, but nice. Got it? Competitive, but nice. That’s the theme we’re working with here. You guys are going up against each other, but you’re also friends and you love being on the network together. That drives ratings. Everyone clear?”

There was a murmur of agreement around the group and Zelena smiled – the effect leaving her looking more determined than ever – as Emma walked towards her designated area of the prep kitchen. Belle was next to her, reorganizing her tower of cupcakes. Killian and Graham were on the other side of the room, with a large, kitchen island in the middle chock full of supplies and pots and pans that they would, undoubtedly, be forced to use as props when they filmed the group shots later that afternoon. 

“You want a cupcake?” Belle asked. 

“What?” Emma choked out, leaning against the counter. 

“Cupcake,” she repeated. “I made them this morning. There’s a ton. I’m sure Zelena won’t miss them if we split one. I promise they’re delicious.”

“I’ve got no doubt,” Emma said, reaching her hand out to take a piece of the offered dessert. 

It was delicious. She chewed on it slowly, wondering where Belle possibly found the time and silently reminded herself to tell Killian later. She stopped chewing immediately, swallowing the cupcake awkwardly as she wondered how exactly she’d stumbled into a situation where she was telling Killian Jones anything. 

Nearly three hours later and Emma wouldn’t say she had fun exactly, but it hadn’t been nearly as bad as she’d imagined it would be. 

That may have been because Killian refused to take anything seriously and there were few things Emma enjoyed more than frustrated network bosses.

“What do you think, Swan?” he called from across the kitchen at one point. “Does this look Iron Chef-y enough?” he flipped something in a pan, the food landing back on the sizzling surface easily and tossed her a grin. 

Emma shook her head, still sitting on top of the counter – per instructions from Ruby who told her “you always sit up there after the show, it’s very you, it’s perfect for the body shots.” 

“I still have no idea what the phrase Iron Chef-y actually means,” she yelled back, crossing her ankle over the other and leaning back on her palms, doing her best to keep anything off her unquestionably expensive dress. “So I’m afraid, I’m not qualified to answer your question.”

Killian sighed dramatically and put the pan back on the stove, throwing in something that looked vaguely like cheddar cheese. “Thoughts Ms. French?” he continued, unperturbed by Emma’s refusal to answer. “What do you think qualifies as Iron Chef-y?”

Belle laughed, the sound so sweet it probably could have been used to help frost her freshly made cupcakes, and she stirred her batter, propping the bowl on her hip so it rested against her bright blue apron. 

“I think the jacket might help,” Belle said. “Seems like a pretty good hint.”

“Ah, but isn’t being an Iron Chef more than just your outfit?” he said seriously. “It’s like a state of mind or something.”

“Or something,” Emma muttered, hopping off the counter to grab one of the vegetables piled on her station. 

“Something to add, Swan?” Killian asked, not taking his eyes off the pan in his hand. It smelled delicious. 

“I didn’t think we were actually supposed to be cooking,” she answered, glancing over her shoulder at him, reaching to grab a knife. She started chopping without even looking at the pepper she was holding in her left hand. 

He shrugged and scoffed a bit. “Ah, well, I can’t seem to help myself,” he said, voice laced with that same innuendo from before. Emma raised her eyebrows and she thought she saw Belle flush slightly next to her. 

“I think you just like to show off,” Emma said, pulling the diced up pepper closer to her with her knife and going over the pieces once more for good measure. She could feel the camera on her, practically boring a hole in the side of her body, and did her best not to look up. 

“If you all could stop talking while we’re supposed to be filming silent promos, that would be fantastic,” Regina said sharply from her spot next to Elsa’s camera. Zelena hadn’t stuck around long after delivering her directives and, somehow, it appeared Killian’s producer had taken over the reigns of the operation. 

“Aye aye, your majesty,” Killian said without a trace of sarcasm in his voice. Emma got the distinct impression it wasn’t the first time he called her that and was, suddenly, struck with the very real curiosity of what Killian’s relationship was with the woman. 

They seemed as close as she and Ruby were – something that wasn’t particularly normal at the network and certainly not for a show like Iron Chef that had more than a dozen chefs to its name. 

Maybe they were friends. 

Or, another, slightly more traitorous voice in the back of her head said, maybe they were dating. 

There was a ring on Regina’s finger – Emma could have been blind and she still would have been able to see that ring – and, well, stranger things had happened than a chef falling for their producer. 

Like Emma wanting to tell Killian Jones something after they finished filming. 

She heard the footsteps in her station before she saw him and spun around to find Killian standing a few inches away from her, that stupid smirk on his face again. “You’re going to get me in trouble,” she hissed, grabbing a second pepper and attacking it on the cutting board.

“And you’re going to chop several fingers off.”

“Please,” Emma muttered, not entirely certain what she was so upset about. “I could do this in my sleep.”

“Confidence is key in all things,” he said softly, but his voice shook slightly with the laughter he was trying to hold in. 

“Is that how you ended up on Iron Chef? Just bluffed your way through with confidence?”

She knew it wasn’t true – knew Mary Margaret and Ruby had told her several times how talented he was over the last few days. She could even see it. He was talented. The food still on his stovetop smelled so good Emma was nervous her stomach was actually going to growl in the middle of the prep kitchen. 

So, she wasn’t sure why she was saying it. Maybe it was a test. For him or for her – she wasn’t entirely positive. 

Killian’s smirk faltered for half a second and he lowered one of his eyebrows in a way that was quickly becoming familiar. He blinked once and his face settled back into place as he crossed his arms over his still-pristine white jacket. 

“Quite the opposite, love,” he said. “Regina had to more or less drag me on set kicking and screaming.”

“What?” She spoke before she thought, drowning in curiosity and questions and, if she were a more sentimental person, possibly his eyes as well. 

He smiled softly – both of them ignoring Graham’s slightly frustrated groan as a camera moved around his station – and leaned against the side of her counter, sliding up next to her until there were only a few inches in between their arms. 

“Is that surprising?”

“Maybe a little bit,” Emma answered honestly. 

“You can ask Regina for confirmation if you want, but I promise, it wasn’t exactly on the top of my list of lifetime achievements. It’s good now and it helps the restaurant a lot, exposure and all of that, but I wasn’t exactly sitting around waiting for her to ask me to be on her TV show.”

“She asked you?”

“So many questions, Swan, I almost feel like I’m being interviewed.”

“No, no, you’re not,” she sputtered. “Sorry. I’m just...curious.”

He turned his head slowly, glancing at her and doing that serious thing with his eyes again and, for a moment, Emma forgot where she was. Then Regina started yelling again and the sound of her heels on the prep kitchen floor made Emma jump to attention. 

“Killian,” she said softly, but with enough acid in her voice to make Emma take a step away from him. “I swear to God, I will kill you if you do not stay at your station and film this promo and stop ruining my life.”

Killian shot her a look as if they’d done this several times before and glanced at Emma like they were conspiring about something. She moved another step away, returning her focus to the peppers, and did her best not to involve herself in the conversation. 

He groaned loudly – like he’d been betrayed or something – and then turned back to Regina. “Yeah, but if you kill me your son is going to be fairly put out and then you’ll have to explain that to him and that’s just a mess I know you don’t want to deal with.”

Emma nearly did cut her fingers off. 

She had no idea Regina had a son – she tried to rack her brain for memories of some kind of announcement or Ruby mentioning that Regina had been pregnant or anything. Nothing. She couldn’t remember any of it. 

And now she had several dozen other questions about Killian Jones were sitting on the tip of her tongue. 

“Roland would get over it,” Regina mumbled. 

“You and I both know that’s not true. A first mate never really gets over losing his captain.”

Regina’s eyes flashed and Emma saw something shift in the conversation – her shoulders sagged and Killian’s smile almost looked sad. “You’re a jerk,” she said softly, tapping her finger on his right wrist for emphasis. 

“Yeah, well, your son loves me.”

“Can you go back to your station now? Your food’s going to burn.”

“Please, my food would never burn.”

“It smells really good,” Emma added, deciding if she was going to stand awkwardly on the edge of the conversation, she was at least going to awkwardly take part in it. 

“Was that a compliment, Swan?” Killian stared at her, eyes wide. 

“Might have been.”

“Huh.”

“Can you please go back to your station now?” Regina asked again, face impossible to read. “We’ve got to do the group shots and Zelena wants you all walking to the center and looking menacing or something like that.”

“Menacing?” Emma laughed and Regina just shrugged. 

“I’ll go back to my station and work on my menacing face,” Killian promised, moving his eyebrows up and down quickly at Emma before turning and walking back to the other side of the kitchen. 

He absolutely did – narrowing his eyes and playing to the camera when they finally got around to filming the group shots – and Emma had to bite back her laughter the entire time. He was absolutely in his element, controlling the tempo and setting the tone of the entire afternoon and Regina looked like she was going to pull her hair out. 

Killian seemed to enjoy that too. 

Elsa, finally, called cut on the entire operation around 2:30 and Emma heaved an audible sigh of relief that it was over. 

“Tired?” 

She glanced to her side, almost expecting to see Killian there and trying to school the surprise on her face when she realized it was Graham. “A little bit,” she said. “Long day and all that. The lights always drain me a bit.”

He nodded at her, wrapping up the knives on his station quickly and pushing them towards the corner of the counter. “It’s nice to see you again,” he continued, voice soft so as not to attract the attention of the crew still around them. 

“You too,” Emma said honestly. 

“I, uh, I thought you might have called or something.”

Emma felt a wave of guilt wash over her and she bit her lip before trying to come up with some sort of response that made sense in any kind of adult world. She felt bad – she should have at least called, but she was Emma and she’d freaked out and she didn’t call and she probably shouldn’t have ever agreed to the coffee-date setup in the first place. 

It was Ruby’s fault anyway. She’d pressed and prodded and explained all the reasons Graham was  _ so nice _ for weeks before Emma had finally given in and let her set something up. She should have known it was doomed from the start – you shouldn’t go out with someone you work with at the network, let alone someone you work with at the network who, at some point, kissed your producer. 

It had been nice and the kiss at the end of the night had been good, but it hadn’t been much more than that. And Emma wasn’t willing to wait around and see if it could become anything more than that. So she didn’t call and, nine months later, Graham was standing in the prep kitchen with her asking why she hadn’t. 

“Yeah,” Emma said slowly, drawing out the words as she desperately tried to figure out what she was trying to say. “Sorry about that.”

Lame. 

What an absolutely lame excuse. She would have grimaced or groaned or sighed dramatically if she didn’t think Graham would ask about that too. 

Instead he smiled – because of course he did. “Ah, well,” Graham said and he sighed slightly. “That’s ok. For what it’s worth, I did have a good time.”

“I did too,” Emma said. It almost wasn’t a complete lie. 

Graham smiled again and nodded, tugging on the rolled-up ends of his flannel shirt. “You pick out your charity, yet?”

“Yup.”

“And?”

“And you’ll find out just like everyone else when we film next week.”

Graham’s eyes widened slightly, but his smile didn’t falter at all and he nodded again at Emma. His shirt stretched over the muscles in his arms when he flexed them out, stuffing them into his pockets. “Well,” he said, “I look forward to it.”

Emma didn’t say anything else, just tried to smile and not feel guilty anymore as she turned back towards her station – somehow there were peppers everywhere and she wasn’t entirely sure how that had happened either. 

The day had kind of gotten away from her. 

She heard Graham’s shoes retreating towards the hallway door and realized, quite suddenly, that there wasn’t anyone else in the studio anymore. Well, she thought, they’d all run out of there quickly. 

Emma relished the silence for a moment, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath as she pushed the chopped up bits of peppers into a small pile. She yanked the pile closer to her, drawing the side of her hand along the countertop and kicking a trash can closer to the edge of the station so she could push the food into it. 

“You know you don’t actually have to clean up after yourself. They pay people to do that.”

Emma pushed the trash can out of the way before she turned around, Killian leaning against the doorframe Graham had just walked through with his ankles crossed over each other and that stupid, genuine smile on his face again. 

“I thought you left,” she said. 

He stuck his lip out slightly and shook his head, walking back into the kitchen. He’d changed. The jacket was gone – he was wearing a t-shirt and jeans again and he ran his hand through his hair as he walked towards her, trying to push the longer pieces away from his forehead. 

“Nah,” he said, as if his presence in front of her wasn’t proof enough that he hadn’t left. “Just had to talk to Regina.”

“About?” Emma asked, eyes darting towards him quickly when she realized how not any of her business that was. 

He took it in stride – literally – walking towards her and leaning up against the counter the same way he had before, leaving only a few inches of space between them. “Not all of us have a consistent filming schedule, love,” he said. “I show up when Regina tells me to and stay at the restaurant when she tells me I don’t have to be here.”

“So that’s true then?”

“What is?”

“You really have your own restaurant?”

Killian turned his head to look at her and the interest was practically written on his face again. “I do,” he said simply. 

“And it’s really in Tribeca?”

“It really is. Leonard and Church or at least close enough to the intersection that we can put that on our website.”

“There’s a website?”

Killian laughed loudly and the sound seemed to seep into Emma’s veins. “It’s 2017, Swan, of course there’s a website,” he said, voice shaking as he tried to control his breathing long enough to actually speak. “Why the 20 questions?”

“I live there.”

“At my restaurant?”

“No,” Emma sighed. “In Tribeca. Like three blocks away from your restaurant.”

“Really?”

“Look who’s playing 20 questions now.”

“Sorry,” he muttered quickly, shaking his head. “I wasn’t trying to, honestly. I was mostly just trying to keep up with you and the stream of information you’re giving off.”

“It’s not that much information,” Emma said, doing her best to rationalize it to herself as much as Killian. 

“It’s any information, which, in the short time I’ve known you, Swan, seems to be a wealth of information.”

“You’ve known me for like four days.”

“Exactly.”

“So,” Emma said pointedly, doing her best to steer the conversation away from divulging information and Killian picking up on character traits far too quickly than he should. “You spend a lot of time in the restaurant?”

“The one I own? Yeah, I do.”

“I can’t believe you own a restaurant.”

“Why?”

Emma shrugged – she hadn’t done a good job steering this conversation at all. “Just doesn’t seem like you.”

“And you know me so well then? Correct me if I’m wrong, Swan, but I think you’ve only known me for, what was it, ‘like four days’ as well.”

She felt her face flush quickly and made a noise in the back of her throat, turning back towards her station and flipping up the handle on the sink. 

“You know,” Killian said, not moving an inch as he spoke. “I wasn’t kidding before, you really don’t have to clean this yourself. That’s not part of the deal.”

Emma shrugged, rinsing her knives off under the water. “I realize that,” she said. “But I always feel kind of weird just leaving my stuff for other people to take care of. And, anyway, these are my knives.”

“You brought your own knives to a promotional shoot that you didn’t even think you were going to cook at?”

“I like to be prepared.”

“Apparently.” Killian finally turned back around, reaching around Emma’s back to grab the dish towel off the counter. He stood at attention next to her, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye every few seconds and, apparently, waiting for further instructions. 

“What are you doing?” Emma asked. 

“I’m going to dry your dishes,” he said, as if it was obvious. He shook the dish towel in his hand for good measure. 

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t have to clean up after yourself either. And yet here we are anyway. C’mon, Swan, it’ll make it all go faster.”

Emma sighed – but it was more out of acquiesce than any sort of real frustration and returned her focus to the dishes in the sink. 

They worked in companionable silence for a few minutes and Emma’s mind drifted as she fell into the task, muscle memory taking over slightly. When she first started working her way through the New York City culinary world, Emma was one of the few employees at any restaurant who would actually volunteer to do the dishes. 

It was boring, sometimes disgusting, work and Emma loved it. She loved the control she had over it, making sure each dish and glass and piece of silverware was pristine before it went back into the restaurant. She appreciated the chance to make everything right and while she knew it was absolutely insane to talk about dishes that way, she also knew that if a meal could have a solid – incredibly clean – foundation, then the rest would all just settle into place. 

She thought the same way about the rest of her life. 

Everything had a spot, everything had a place and everything got, metaphorically, polished clean. 

Because the one time she hadn’t followed that plan, it had all blown up in her face. 

They were nearly finished – Killian a, surprisingly, good dish-dryer – and Emma was just about to hand him the last knife in the sink when it slipped against her fingers, slicing along her palm with a sharp shot of pain that took her by surprise. 

“Swan,” Killian said quickly, snapping his head towards her and pulling the knife away from her. He tossed it back in the sink without a second look and tugged on her wrist, holding her hand up and walking her away her station. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine,” she mumbled. 

It wasn’t. It hurt like hell – but she absolutely was not going to tell him that. 

“Swan,” he repeated, voice coming out like a sigh. “Look at your hand.” She glanced up at the offending limb and had to stifle back a groan – a small trail of blood was slinking down her palm, pooling in the wrinkles where her wrist bent. Emma squeezed her eyes closed and wrinkled her nose, earning a small laugh from Killian. 

She felt his fingers unwrap from her wrist and she opened her eyes a fraction of an inch to see him staring worriedly at her. “Stay here,” he instructed. “And keep your hand in the air. I’ll be right back.”

Emma had no idea where he was going, but she did as she was told, keeping her eyes on anything except her disgusting hand as Killian jogged towards the back of the room. He was back less than a minute later, a box in his hand. He tossed it on the counter, flipping the counter open and pulling out a roll of gauze. 

She watched him with something bordering dangerously close to awe – he didn’t say a word, just falling into a rhythm that made it seem as if this was something he’d done several times before. Killian unlooped the gauze quickly, flicking his wrist until the end came loose and ripped it off, balling it up and putting it on Emma’s palm.

“Make a fist,” he said and the authority in his voice made Emma press her lips together tightly. He reached behind him, pulling something that actually looked like a flask out of the back pocket of his jeans, pressing it into the crook of his elbow so he could unscrew the top. 

“Hand,” he muttered and Emma stuck it out in front of her. He pulled the gauze off, tossing the pile into the garbage, and then, without much ceremony, poured whatever was in the flask on Emma’s palm.

She yanked it back quickly, eyebrows drawing low as she bit her lip tightly, hoping that pain would be worse than the one in her hand. It wasn’t. 

“Jesus Christ, Killian,” she snapped. “What the hell was that?”

“Rum,” he said. “And a damn waste of it too. Can you believe this nationally-broadcast TV station doesn’t have a first aid kit with alcohol in it?”

“And you just carry rum around with you, regularly?”

Killian shrugged. “This was on Belle’s station,” he said and Emma widened her eyes again. “Which begs the question of what exactly she’s putting in those cupcakes of hers.”

“You know she told me she made them this morning?” Emma said, momentarily forgetting the dull pain in her hand. 

“Really?”

Emma nodded. “They were good though, so I guess there’s that.”

“You were copping desserts before, Swan?”

“Hey,” she said sharply and Killian’s smile nearly made her take a step back. “They were offered. She offered me a cupcake. No theft or copping involved.”

He made a face that seemed to say he almost believed her and clicked his tongue to signal he wanted her hand back. Emma groaned, but put her hand out anyway. The gauze was back and Killian wrapped it tightly around Emma’s palm, circling it around her hand several times before tugging up to get her to lift it up. He tucked the edge underneath one of the layers and pulled it through with his hand before pulling Emma’s hand even farther up and ripping off the end – with his teeth. 

It shouldn’t have caught her by surprise. 

He did only have one hand to use and it made sense that he wouldn’t have been able to get enough leverage or  _ whatever  _ between his fingers to actually pull it off. Emma was rationalizing. She knew it and that was dangerous because if Emma was rationalizing that meant she liked it and couldn’t – needed to put an immediate stop to this flirting and bantering thing they were doing. 

Emma didn’t say anything. 

“You alright, love?” Killian asked and it sounded like he was shouting the question in the empty kitchen. The water was still on at the sink and Emma nodded once before racing towards the faucet and flicking it down. 

“I’m fine,” Emma promised. 

Killian scoffed softly – a vocal, flashing neon sign that he didn’t believe her – and he walked forward, washing off the knife and drying it off without another word, adding it to the small pile of cutlery Emma had kept on the side so she knew it was hers. 

“Thanks,” she said softly, not specifying on the knife or the dishes or bandaging her hand. He knew she meant all three. 

“No problem.”

“You bandage up a lot of people?” Emma asked, trying to keep her voice light. His eyes darkened for a moment before his face settled into impassivity and for a moment Emma considered stopping her questions. But she was curious and he was interested and interesting and she wanted to know. “You’re pretty good at it.”   
“I’ve got some experience,” he said quickly and Emma got the distinct impression the conversation was over. So she took a different approach. 

“Who’s Milah?” she asked, almost positive that it was an innocent question. 

“What?”  
  
“On the tattoo.”

And, suddenly, everything changed. 

The simple, easy pace they’d worked at over the last 20 minutes evaporated in two words and ten letters and Killian rolled his shoulders as the words seemed to sink into his skin. A muscle in his jaw ticked and Emma twisted her lips, wondering what exactly she’d done wrong. 

She glanced back down at the tattoo on his forearm – the red of the heart practically flashing in her eyes and the letters plastered on top clear even when Emma shut her eyes. 

Killian took a deep breath before he answered, wrapping his hand around the back of his neck – so Emma couldn’t see the tattoo – and  _ damn _ , this is why she shouldn’t have said anything. 

She should have thanked him for fixing her hand and walked out the door and not looked back – everything in its place and nothing blowing up or disappointing or walking away. 

Emma half expected him to do just that – he was right, she didn’t know him at all – but he took her by surprise again and walked back towards her, eyes trained on the heels she still inexplicably had on. He didn’t look up at her until they were practically toe to toe and when he did his eyes were so open and honest and full of something Emma couldn’t quite put her finger on – it might have been loss.

He looked lost. 

“Someone from a long time ago,” he answered softly. 

“And she’s…”  
  
“Gone.”

Emma opened her mouth, not entirely sure what she was going to say, but certain she needed to say  _ something  _ when a pair of sneakers pounded into kitchen and forced her attention away from Killian. 

“Mom!” Henry yelled, sprinting across the kitchen floor and colliding forcefully with the side of the station Belle had been using earlier that afternoon. 

Killian stepped back as if he’d been shocked and Emma tried to cover up her disappointment. She didn’t have any right to be. And maybe she wasn’t really. Maybe it was more surprise that out of all the things that had been thrown at them over the course of the day, a 12-year-old barrelling into the network prep kitchen calling her “mom” was enough to make him step back. 

“Slow down, kid,” Emma said, reaching out to grab Henry by the shoulder and pull him against her side. 

“What happened to your hand?” Henry asked, eyes going wide as he leaned back to look at the gauze wrapped around her palm. 

“Nothing.” He sighed and made a face. “Seriously.”  
  
“Your mom just dropped something,” Killian said, jumping into the conversation. Emma and Henry’s heads snapped towards him and he smiled in response, that momentary step-back seemingly forgotten. 

“Who are you?” Henry asked. 

“Hey,” Emma cut in. “Nuh uh. Polite. Be more polite.”  
  
Henry rolled his head and Killian laughed softly, crossing his arms over his chest. Emma saw her son’s eyes fall on the prosthetic, but he didn’t say anything and she silently thanked every single religious figure she could think of that she’d somehow succeeded in knocking some manners into Henry. 

“Sorry,” Henry mumbled. “I’m Henry, it’s nice to meet you. And you are?”  
  
Killian glanced at Emma, eyes flashing with amusement, and she smiled, shrugging quickly. “Killian Jones,” he said, sticking his hand out and waiting for Henry to shake it. “It’s nice to meet you too.”  
  
“Are you a chef like my mom?”  
  
“I am.”  
  
“And you’re going to do this all-star thing with her too?”  
  
“I am,” Killian repeated. He kept looking at Emma, eyes darting over with every other word and that smile on his face was doing something to her ability to maintain a normal breathing level. 

“She’s totally going to beat you,” Henry said.

“Henry!” Emma cried, but Killian was practically hysterical at the sentence. 

He brushed her off quickly and grinned at Henry seriously. “That’s alright, Swan,” he said. “I appreciate a healthy dose of confidence. A son should be confident in his mother.”  
  
Emma bit her lip tightly and wrung her hands together – a nervous habit she’d picked up when she was a kid, before David had found her. This was too much. This wasn’t supposed to happen. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone in the kitchen when Henry got there, let alone Killian Jones bandaging hands and helping her dry dishes. 

Emma lived in two different worlds and she was certain that Killian Jones solely existed the  _ celebrity  _ world – but then he was standing there and he was smiling at her kid and hyping up Henry for the all-star competition and Emma wasn’t sure what belonged anywhere. 

Henry was firing off questions a mile a minute, asking about Killian’s restaurant and what he cooked and what his favorite food on Iron Chef was and Emma tried her best to keep up when she got distracted by the sound of another set of shoes jogging down the hallway. 

“I’m so so sorry!” Mary Margaret yelled, moving into the kitchen as fast as she possibly could, gaze falling on Emma immediately. “He just took off as soon as we got through security and he was on the elevator before I’d even realized he’d pressed the button and…”  
  
Mary Margaret cut off her explanation as quickly as she started it, eyes darting between Emma and Killian. They, eventually, landed on Emma and Mary Margaret’s face said everything she was thinking. 

“It’s ok,” Emma said quickly, trying to get Mary Margaret to stop making  _ that _ face. “You shouldn’t be running around anyway. David will kill me if he knows you moved at any sort of speed that was faster than snail-like.”  
  
“David worries too much.”  
  
“I’d still rather not get yelled at if I don’t have to.”  
  
“Mom,” Henry interrupted, not interested at all in the speed at which Mary Margaret was walking. “Mom did you know Killian’s restaurant is three blocks from our apartment? He said we could come for dinner sometimes. He makes really good cheeseburgers.”  
  
“That so?” Emma asked, directing her question more at Killian than at Henry. 

He nodded seriously. “The best in the city. We ran out on Friday night, although that may have had more to do with the cheese choice than anything else.”  
  
“What kind of cheese?” Henry asked, bobbing on the balls of his feet slightly. There was, it appeared, nothing more exciting in the world to a 12-year-old boy than a well-made cheeseburger. 

“Cheddar,” Killian answered. “To be fair though, I did have some help though, Regina’s son picked it out for me.”  
  
“Regina’s son?” Emma asked quickly, head snapping up. 

Killian nodded. “For all intents and purposes. I think she and Robin were talking about her adopting him officially once they got married.”   
Oh. 

Regina was engaged – to someone who was not Killian. To someone named Robin who had a son that she was thinking about adopting. 

Emma tried not to let her thoughts show on her face, the words  _ open book _ flashing across her line of vision, and nodded silently. That didn’t appear to help – Killian smiled at her and she was positive he could read her mind. 

“I’ve been wanting to go to your restaurant for ages,” Mary Margaret said, breaking into the silent conversation without realizing. “It’s always packed though. I mean, good for you, but it makes it tough to get a reservation.”  
  
Killian laughed loudly again, grinning and sticking his hands into his pockets. “I might be able to help with that.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Yeah,” he said confidently. “I know a guy.”

“That would be awesome.”  
  
“Just figure out when you want to go,” he said easily. “You’ll let me know, won’t you, Swan?”

“Sure,” Emma said quickly, the sound of the nickname settling into the space between her ribs like he’d been calling that since the dawn of time and not just a few days ago. 

“Can we go too, mom?” Henry asked earnestly. 

“We’ll see, kid,” Emma said, purposely not answering and avoiding Killian’s face when she responded. She didn’t want to see the possible disappointment there. “Come on, we’ve got to get out of here. I’m sure you’ve got homework and we owe Mary Margaret something for making her chase you through this building.”   
“Ice cream?” 

“Maybe.”   
“We’re totally going to get ice cream,” Henry said seriously, moving back towards the door quickly. He only turned for a moment, glancing over his shoulder to shout, “Bye, Killian!”

“Bye,” he yelled back, smiling slowly and eyes moving towards Emma. 

“I’ll go get him,” Mary Margaret volunteered. “And I’m totally getting a waffle cone.”  
  
“That seems fair.”  
  
Mary Margaret nodded and followed Henry back into the hallway, leaving Emma and Killian alone in the prep kitchen again, silence crashing down on both of them quickly. “Thanks again for helping with my hand,” Emma muttered after what felt like several sunlit-days of quiet. “And the dishes.”  
  
“No problem,” he said. “Like I said, I’ve got some experience with both.”  
  
“Bottom rung of the restaurant ladder?”  
  
“That,” Killian agreed, “and also the Navy.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Of the United States,” he clarified, voice thick with sarcasm. 

“No, I figured that, I’m just confused.”   
  
“About?”   
  
“Your relationship with the United States Navy.”  
  
“I was part of it,” Killian said simply, seemingly unaware of the information he’d just deposited at Emma’s feet. “For awhile anyway. That’s how I know how to deal with your hand and the dishes. Mostly the dishes if we’re being honest.”  
  
Emma gaped at him, stunned slightly – he just kept smiling, rolling back on his heels. “Well, you were good at both. If we’re being honest.”   
  
“Thanks.”   
  
Emma nodded, raising her eyebrows as she chewed on the inside of her lip. “I better get going. I’ve got an ice cream request to fill.”  
  
“Of course. Make sure you change that gauze tomorrow morning.”

“Aye aye,” Emma said, drawing a smile out of Killian, one side of his mouth tilting up. Emma ignored the way her stomach flipped slightly at that and shot him her own smile in response, wondering how the sky had managed not to fall when she let Killian Jones into the  _ other _ side of her life. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is....long. So we're pretty much right back on track. What even is word count? I don't know. She doesn't go here. Anyway, we're all back together and sticking that way from here on out. As always, @laurnorder is the absolute best to read all of this. And, of course, thank you for every click, comment and kudos. You're all a delight. 
> 
> Come flail with me on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	5. Chapter 5

She had a kid. 

And a family. 

An energetic kid – who looked  _ maybe _ 12 years old – who was obviously proud of his mom and incredibly interested in ice cream and someone – who might be her sister, maybe, he never got a name, just promised to get her into his restaurant whenever she wanted – who could pick said kid up from school. 

A family. 

Emma Swan had a family. 

Killian ran his hand over his face, fingers rubbing roughly against the bottom of his chin, and leaned back against the wall of the kitchen, trying to figure out what exactly he was going to cook. He should probably use that  mozzarella . 

“Hey Captain,” Eric said loudly as he walked into the kitchen, jerking Killian out of his thoughts quickly. “How was the promotional thing?”  
  
“Long.”  
  
“Those things always seem to be longer than they have to. Regina tell you about the next round of IC filming?”   
  
“How do you know about the next round of IC filming?”   
  
“She told me last night when they were leaving, something about making sure you didn’t get too wrapped up in changing the whole menu for the fall so you’d have some time to film the show and then this all-star thing she’s got you doing too.”

“She’s going to run you ragged,” Ariel added, appearing a moment after her husband, bright red hair a stark contrast to the pristine white that was The Jolly Roger kitchen. 

“You’re not supposed to be back here,” Killian muttered, knowing it was no use. Ariel went wherever she wanted, whenever she wanted, with whomever she wanted – usually Eric. 

Two years ago, just after Killian had started Iron Chef, Ariel Marvoz had walked into The Jolly Roger with a bag in her hand and a request – more like a demand – for a job on her lips. She’d run away, determined to  _ make it on her own _ or something equally dramatic and Killian hadn’t had the heart to turn her away. 

So he gave her a job and she never left. 

Eric showed up six months later – resume full of experience and recommendations and an actual degree from a culinary school – and the minute he saw Ariel, all bets were off. They flirted and they walked in circles around each other and Killian would have hated it if Robin and Regina didn’t do the exact same thing every night as well. 

It wasn’t until Eric burned his arm – a grease mishap that Killian never got the full story on, not at the restaurant because of a brand-new Iron Chef episode and Ariel had to take the sous chef to the hospital – that things, officially, changed. 

Driving someone to the hospital while they’re trying not to weep openly over second-degree burns does something very specific to a relationship. 

They barely left each other’s side after that and, six months later, Killian and Robin were tasked with lifting the heaviest boxes when Ariel moved into Eric’s apartment on 89th Street. 

It hadn’t been easy - Ariel’s father was, apparently, close to impossible to please and Eric’s job didn’t fit the picture he’d had for his daughter’s husband, but then Killian had casually mentioned something about how much money Eric made when he’d met Mr. Marvoz at the wedding and things seemed to get better after that. 

Ariel shrugged at him, rolling her shoulders slightly so Eric could work his arm around her and smiled brightly. “Yeah, but you guys came back here and I wanted to talk, so, you know, deal with it or something.”  
  
“The most mature,” Killian laughed. 

“Always. Now, come on, what’s going on with you?”  
  
“Why does everyone keep asking me that question?”   
  
“Are a lot of people asking you that question?”   
  
Killian sighed. “Well you and Regina, so just about every woman I know in my life.”   
  
“What about that other woman, Emma what’s-her-face from the network?” Eric asked and Killian groaned loudly, swinging open the refrigerator door to grab what might have actually been several pounds of mozzarella. He piled the blocks in the crook of his elbow, balancing them against his chest and tried to take a steadying breath against the cold air in front of him. 

“What are you talking about?” Killian sighed, knowing full-well that both Eric and Ariel could see right through his attempts to keep his voice even. 

“Regina told me,” Eric shrugged.    
  
“Regina talks far too much for her own good.”   
  
“She’s worried about you too,” Ariel added. 

“There’s not anything to be worried about.”   
  
Ariel leveled him with a very specific gaze and Killian sighed, dumping the mozzarella on the counter. He grabbed one of the knives in front of him and started slicing the plastic wrapping off the blocks, cutting the cheese into thin strips as if he actually had some sort of plan for what he was going to do with it. 

“Yeah,” Eric laughed, “except the ridiculous schedule you’ve got and the half a dozen places you want to be at once. Not to mention the fact that you’re doing a God-awful job of keeping this expansion plan under wraps and you’ve been so scatterbrained you bought nearly fifteen pounds of mozzarella this week and now you don’t know what to do with it.”  
  
“Was that enough to be worried about?” Ariel asked, leaning against the counter next to Killian and smiling like they’d just won something. 

He sighed again and put the knife down, rounding on his two employees quickly. Ariel’s eyes flickered with something that almost looked like nerves and Killian bit back the angry-retort on his tongue. 

In addition to a distinct inability to cope well with loss, Killian also had a bit of a temper – well, a lot of a temper. Most of the time, it stayed in check – a ridiculously successful restaurant and status as one of the network’s top personalities made that relatively easy – but sometimes, like this time when his entire staff was talking about him, that temper got the best of Killian and he had to count to ten before he spoke again. 

“Yeah, that’s enough,” he muttered, “And the expansion idea isn’t set in stone yet.”

He didn’t add that, despite his network all-star status and incredibly impressive bank statements, the powers that be were still a bit nervous about letting him buy the empty restaurant uptown. 

They didn’t need to know about that. 

Of course, that’s when Robin burst into the kitchen, face flushed and the smile on his face making Ariel actually giggle. He looked manic. And excited. 

Killian spun around at the sound of the door swinging into the wall and groaned. “You’re not supposed to be back here either. Don’t you all know the rules?”   
  
“Sod the rules,” Robin said quickly, accent coming on a little thicker as he rushed over the words. “I’ve got news. Great, big important news.”   
  
“Which is, what, exactly?”

“A new opportunity.” He paused between each of the words, adding a bit of dramatic flair to the moment – which didn’t really need it since Killian was fairly certain the kitchen door had dented the wall when Robin came barreling into the room. 

“For what?” Ariel asked, ignoring the fact that Robin was talking to Killian. He shot her an exasperated glare and Eric laughed again, kissing the top of her head quickly. “Is this about expanding The Jolly?”   
  
“What?” Robin asked quickly, eyes flitting across the three other people in the room. “I...I don’t...I have no idea what you’re talking about.”   
Killian waved his hand quickly, body sagging a bit as he did.   
  
“Relax, Locksley,” he sighed. “Cat’s out of the bag or whatever other metaphor you want to use. They know, Regina knows, the people at the network probably know. Apparently no one here is very good at keeping secrets.”

He glared at Ariel again, widening his eyes threateningly, but, this time, she just smiled back at him. And Killian knew he’d lost. 

If that was even possible in a situation like this. 

“Come on,” Killian said, walking towards Robin and clapping his hand on his shoulder. “I’ll make you a drink and you can explain your great, big important news, although, I will warn you that the last time I got great, big important news I got roped into a year-long string of shows on the network, so I’ve got some pretty high expectations.”  
  
“I thought you didn’t want to do any of this,” Robin said. “Regina was practically pulling teeth trying to get you to commit.”   
  
Killian rolled his head at him and Robin’s mouth snapped shut quickly as he realized what he was doing. “Sorry,” Robin muttered, but the damage was already done. Ariel was actually clapping behind them. 

“Whatever you’re about to say, I don’t want to hear it,” Killian said, voice dropping low as he turned to look at Ariel. She was bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet now and the grin on her face was so large it probably could have reoriented the tides or something. 

“Too bad,” she answered. “Is this because of that girl?”   
  
“Woman,” Killian corrected. “She’s not a girl.”

Ariel widened her eyes and, somehow, her smile got bigger. “That so?”   
  
“She’s got a kid”   
  
“And?”   
  
“And what?” Killian asked. 

“And you’re great with kids,” Robin added, ignoring Killian’s disappointed face at his return to the conversation. “Roland’s obsessed with you. If it didn’t occasionally make my life easier, I’d almost be jealous at how much he likes you.”

“That’s different.”   
  
“How?”   
  
“Because this isn’t just some little kid. He’s like, at least, 12 and…”   
  
“And you’re terrified of a 12-year-old,” Ariel said, grin turning more into a knowing smirk with each word she spoke. “Or,” she added quickly, eyebrows practically jumping up her forehead. “You’re terrified of a 12-year-old’s mom and what she’d do if you get attached.”

Killian groaned, turning back to the mozzarella and slicing again. He needed to focus on the food. The food wasn’t complicated. Well, that wasn’t entirely true – the food would be less complicated if he could figure out what to do with the absurd amount of cheese he’d ordered. 

“I mean,” Ariel continued, “that’s what’s going on isn’t it? You’re freaking out because of this girl? Woman, whatever?”  
  
“No,” Killian said quickly. 

“That’s it?”   
  
“What more do you want me to say?”   
  
“What you’re actually thinking would be nice.”   
  
Killian pushed the knife through the final block of cheese and turned towards Eric, ignoring Ariel’s questions and comments and his own curiosity when it came to what exactly he was thinking about Emma Swan. 

“I need you to come up with some way to use this,” Killian said, nodding towards the cheese. “I don’t care how. Just use it. Make fondue or something.”  
  
“Fondue?” Eric repeated. Killian shrugged. “We don’t have anything to put fondue in.”   
  
“How is that possible?” Killian snapped back. “We’re, reportedly, a very good restaurant. And we don’t have anything to put fondue in?”   
  
“Well, to be fair, I don’t know that we’ve ever actually made fondue. It’s not really a dinner thing.”   
  
“Make it a dinner thing.”   
  
Ariel looked nervous again and Eric was, clearly, doing his best not to argue with Killian. His sous chef took a deep breath, but nodded once. “Sure thing, Captain,” he said, emphasizing the nickname the entire restaurant staff had adopted years ago. “We’ll make it a dinner thing.”  
  
“Good,” Killian answered, voice falling back to normal. Ariel made a face at him, eyes softening a bit and he did his best to ignore the wave of guilt at the mini-temper tantrum he’d just thrown in the middle of his kitchen. “Once we get the service started come find me and we can talk about the fall menu.”   
  
“I knew you wanted to change it.”   
  
Killian shrugged. “No one wants to eat the same thing over and over again.”   
  
Eric nodded seriously, reaching towards one of the cabinets to start grabbing a handful of pots, playing with the knobs on the oven as he went. 

“Come on,” Killian said, glancing towards Robin as he made his way towards the kitchen door. “I owe you a drink.”   
  
Robin lifted one of his eyebrows and pushed open the door. “Just no rum,” he muttered. “Regina’ll kill me.”

“Killian,” Ariel called, catching up to him in the small hallway that led from the kitchen back to the dining room and tugging on his left arm. She didn’t notice the small tremor that moved over him at the touch or the way his eyes snapped down to her fingers, just inches away from his brace. “You’re really ok?”

“I’m fine,” he said quickly, tugging his hand away. She noticed that. “Honestly.”   
  
“If I ask you something right now, do you promise not to bite my head off?”   
  
“Sorry about that,” he muttered, scuffing his foot along the linoleum floor and ducking his head. 

“I’m going to take that as a yes,” she continued. “I think you should go for it.”   
  
He lowered his eyebrows in confusion, crossing his arms tightly. Ariel brushed her hair behind her ears and smiled encouragingly nodding at Killian. “What are you talking about?”   
  
“This Emma and her kid. I think you should go for it.”   
  
“You have no idea what you’re saying,” Killian answered quickly, brushing her off with practiced ease. This wasn’t the first time Ariel had done this – seemingly determined to make sure that Killian didn’t end up a headline in  _ The Post _ on the off chance he slipped and died in the restaurant and didn’t have a wife to check on him. 

He wasn’t sure if he appreciated the effort yet or not. 

Ariel pulled up one side of her mouth, a skeptical look that Killian resisted rolling his eyes at. “I’m serious, Ari,” he said. “This isn’t happening.” 

She narrowed her eyes at that – the old nickname practically shouted in the empty hallway. Killian only called her that when he wanted her to  _ understand _ something. She’d practically lived as Ari when she first started waitressing, Killing explaining the best ways to describe the night’s specials and what kind of wine to suggest with certain foods. 

“Blast from the past,” Ariel muttered and Killian couldn’t suppress his laugh.

“That’s because I mean it.”   
  
“But Regina said you were smirking. That’s code for flirting and you know it. You like her and her kid. That’s why you’re running away.”   
  
“No one is running away. I can’t, even if I wanted to. I’ve got to spend the better part of the next year competing against her.”

And therein lied the crux of Killian’s problem. Because Ariel and Regina were right – he was flirting and smirking and dressing hand wounds like he was still stationed in the Gulf Coast and, God, he wanted her. 

He wanted to know about her and why she hadn’t told Graham about what her charity would be – hearing the conversation with the woodsman cook while he was walking down the hallway back to the kitchen that afternoon – and who the woman with Henry was and what kind of ice cream she’d ordered after she’d left the building. 

He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t want anything from her. She was right – they’d known each other for four days and only spent a few hours together, but Killian couldn’t shake the idea that Emma Swan was  _ special _ from his brain. 

But the last time he’d let someone be special, let someone in the same way he seemed to want Emma, it had all blown up in his face – almost literally. 

“You’re a stubborn ass, you know that, right,” Ariel said, nudging Killian’s shoulder with the kind of familiarity that made his heart feel like it was bursting out of his chest. 

“And I know your heart’s in the right place.”

“It is,” Ariel promised. “You’ve done so much for us, all of us. Regina and Robin and me and Eric and it’s just not fair.”   
  
“What’s not?”   
  
“You deserve to be happy too, Killian.”   
  
He sighed softly and wrapped his right hand tightly around Ariel’s forearm, tugging her closer to him until he was hugging her in the hallway, red hair pressing against his jaw. She let out a shaky laugh against his chest, hands falling around his waist out of instinct. 

“I am happy,” he said. 

And it was true – he was. He had the restaurant and the food and the seemingly undying devotion of a six-year-old who was bound to show up in said restaurant sooner rather than later. And he had his friends and people who wanted to make sure he was  _ happy _ and Killian was struck with the realization that he might have actually lied to Emma that afternoon. 

He did have a family. 

He’d stumbled into it a bit, but it was there. 

The question, though, the one Ariel hadn’t actually asked yet, was whether or not that family would be enough. 

“If you say so,” Ariel muttered against his jacket. 

“I think I just did. I promise, Ari.”  
  
She pulled back, staring at him when he called her  _ that _ again and Killian knew she didn’t believe him for a second. “Go get Robin his drink before Regina and Rol show up,” she said, pushing on his chest lightly with the pads of her fingers. “Figure out the rest of your life, Killian.”  It seemed like a multi-tier instruction. 

He nodded once before turning back towards the dining room only to find that Robin had taken things into his own hands, standing behind the bar with a shaker in his hand and a vaguely annoyed look on his face. 

“You’re just breaking every rule in the entire restaurant, aren’t you?” Killian asked, sinking into one of the chairs as Robin’s head snapped up. 

“You were taking forever.”  
  
“Got accosted by Ari in the hallway.”   
  
Robin’s eyebrows ticked up at the nickname, but didn’t say anything – a fact that Killian was more than just a bit grateful for. “You ready to hear my news, now?”   
  
“As long as it doesn’t require me to go anywhere right now, then yes.”   
  
“It doesn’t,” Robin said, grabbing two glasses from behind him and pouring whatever he’d made into each of them. He pushed one towards Killian who grimaced slightly when he tasted the alcohol in it. Robin ignored him and leaned his forearms against the bar, resting his head on his hands and staring at Killian. 

“So, I know you were all about that property uptown, but I think I’ve found something better. Now, don’t bite my head off...”   
Killian rolled his eyes, twisting his head around so he was staring at the ceiling. “Just tell me, Locksley.”   
  
“I was thinking a different borough.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“You said you weren’t going to bite.”   
  
“I literally said one word.”

“I think it could work. A lot better than uptown. And, if Regina is right, and this whole all-star thing gets some traction, moving into a borough could be a huge step. That could open up a new audience or whatever you want to call it for restaurants. Then you could even think about moving outside the city.”   
  
“Outside the city?” Killian gaped, head spinning a bit at Robin’s apparent plan for the future. “We’ve never even talked about that.”   
  
“I’m talking about it, now.”

Killian huffed out a breath of air and rested his head on his right palm, tugging on his lower lip with his teeth. 

As with most things in his life, Killian had stumbled into the idea of expanding the restaurant, an idea Robin brought up months ago when they sold out of the BBQ sauce at the Union Square pop-up shop. 

Robin worked as a supplier for the network – bringing in food and vegetables and even equipment, sometimes from around the state and the country, so the shows ran smoothly, which was how he’d met Regina in the first place – and his connects meant that he also seemingly knew everyone in the entire restaurant business. 

And if he didn’t know them, Robin made it a point of figuring out their life story. 

Which, of course, was how he’d gotten Killian to tell him about his hand that day he came back to The Jolly Roger. 

So, ten months ago, when Robin had brought up the idea of opening up a second restaurant, Killian had laughed in his face. But Robin hadn’t let it go. He’d talked and he’d looked at properties and he’d shown Killian all of them, hyping up the idea until he was fairly positive it could work perfectly. And then he’d even offered to invest – something about being there all the time anyway and eating the food all the time and he should have some bigger interest in how things went than just hearing about it from Killian. 

It became a partnership after that – Regina would never admit it, but she was, decidedly, thrilled – and they talked more about location and size and Robin came up with several spreadsheets about profit margins that Killian was only passably interested in. 

He was mostly interested in the food. 

They found the property on the Upper West Side a few weeks before, certain it was exactly what they were looking for. It shouldn’t have surprised Killian that Robin had found something better. 

“Where exactly is this great, big new property that you’re so interested in moving to?” Killian asked, taking another sip of the drink in front of him, despite his better judgement.

“Gowanus,” Robin answered simply.

“Like the Canal?” Robin nodded. “Are there even restaurants over there? Isn’t it just like shipping and IKEA?”   
  
“Exactly.”   
  
“You’re not making any sense at all.”   
  
“It’s up-and-coming. Seriously, google it. It’s hip, it’s changing and there are a ton of restaurants moving in there, taking advantage of the theming.”   
  
“The theming?” Killian repeated, skeptically, laughter inching into his voice. “And what do you even know about hip?”

Robin’s face didn’t change at all, a picture of serious ideas and expansion for Killian’s restaurant. “You don’t think a restaurant called The Jolly Roger would be perfect for right next to the water? Please, those ads write themselves.”   
  
“Oh, you’re writing my ads now?”

“I could and you know it.”   
  
He was right. Stupid, self-confident guy who was, possibly, the most connected person in all of New York City could probably find the top ad designer in any of the boroughs to work on them too. And they’d be fantastic and perfect and bring in customers and Killian would eat his words – so he didn’t say anything instead. 

“It’s cheaper too,” Robin added. 

“Yeah?”   
  
“Well, it’s a warehouse, so.”

“A warehouse?” Killian asked loudly, ignoring the sound of his restaurant door opening. “How the hell am I supposed to open a restaurant in a warehouse?”

“That’s not a good word, Uncle Killian,” Roland said, appearing next Killian’s side as soon as he sprinted across the restaurant. He held his hands up and Killian smiled at him out of instinct, lifting him up and pulling him onto his legs.

“God, you’re heavy,” Killian sighed. “Who’s feeding you?”   
  
“You are!”   
  
“Ah, of course.”   
  
“I take it you told him about Gowanus,” Regina said, sitting down in the seat next to Killian and eyeing Robin questioningly. He was still standing behind the bar.

“He didn’t react the way I was hoping,” Robin admitted, shooting Killian a glare. 

“It’s a warehouse, that’s why,” Killian said, shaking his head. “It’s not a restaurant.”   
  
“The Jolly wasn’t a restaurant when you got it,” Regina objected. “And you made it one then. What’s different now?”   
  
“That was at least a bar. There was an idea of a restaurant in the building. I’m not a contractor. I can’t just turn a warehouse into a restaurant. And, thanks to certain people in  _ this _ restaurant, I’m going to be a bit tied up for the next 12 months. So I won’t exactly be able to make sure everything goes according to plan.”   
  
Regina groaned, leaning over the bar to grab a glass and tap it pointedly, lifting it up towards Robin. He grinned at her and started mixing the martini without another word. “Are we still on this whining track?” Regina asked. “I’m not going to listen to this for a whole year.”   
  
“What are you whining about Uncle Killian?” Roland asked, twisting to glance up at him. 

“Nothing mate,” Killian said. “Gina’s just exaggerating.”   
  
“But you’re going to be on TV a lot, right? That’s cool. I wouldn't mind being on TV.”

Killian did his best to nod encouragingly and Regina brushed her hands over his hair. “Someday, Rol,” she muttered. The six-year-old didn’t look particularly impressed with the idea of  _ someday _ and Killian laughed at the look on his face, earning himself a glare from Regina in the process.

“You don’t have to monitor everything,” Robin said reasonably, pushing the drink towards his fiancé. “They have people who can do that for you. I can find people who can do that for you if you want.”   
  
Killian took a deep breath and considered his choices. He wanted to open another restaurant – it was the next logical choice and would open up everything so that Ariel didn’t have to keep turning people away when they called to make reservations six months in advance. 

But letting Robin figure this out and hire people to do work while he spent the next year locked into a network TV schedule meant one very important thing – Killian would have to give up some of his control. 

And he wasn’t particularly fond of the idea. 

“You can trust me, you know,” Robin laughed. Roland gripped the front of Killian’s jacket tightly, tiny hand turning into a fist on his chest like he was trying to prove a point. Killian took another deep breath, letting it out slowly before meeting his friend’s eyes. 

“I know that,” he said. “That’s not the problem. I do trust you. Both of you,” he glanced meaningfully at Regina, who smiled at him over her drink. “It’s the rest of the world I don’t trust very much.”  
  
“We’ll find someone good,” Robin promised. 

“A whole team of someone’s good,” Regina added.    
  
“That’s not a word, Gina,” Roland said softly, earning three curious glances from the adults around him. “ _ Someone’s _ – it’s not a word.”

Regina beamed at him, tugging him off Killian’s legs to wrap him tightly in her arms and kiss the top of his head. He wiggled for a moment, struggling against the outpouring of affection before he settled against Regina and wrapped his arms around her waist. 

“That’s true,” she said into his hair, cheek pressed up against the side of his head. Robin looked like he was about to hold some sort of parade in celebration of his family’s perfection and Killian finished the drink in front of him. “You’re the smartest, you know.”   
  
“I do,” Roland said simply. 

“Confident too,” Killian laughed, ruffling Roland’s hair quickly before Regina could say anything about it. 

“What do you want to do?” Robin asked, returning quickly to the conversation. “They want an answer sooner rather than later.”   
  
“Really? There some sort of high demand for warehouses in Brooklyn?”   
  
“I was being serious about up and coming. People are moving there because there’s space and the aforementioned theme and the buildings are cheap.”   
  
“How cheap are we talking here?” Killian asked. He wasn’t exactly wanting for money, but the bank’s position earlier in the week had given him pause. 

“Enough that you probably wouldn’t even have to take out a loan at the beginning,” Robin said. Killian hadn’t expected that. “And, there’s something else.”   
  
“Of course there is.”   
  
“The people who own the building own a couple other ones along the canal and they think you’re a big-time get.”   
  
“Excuse me?”   
  
“They want to use you as an example,” Regina cut in, like that explained everything. 

“I still don’t get it.”   
  
Robin sighed and moved his hands quickly, like he was trying to come up with the right words. “You’re an Iron Chef. You have a successful restaurant here and if you can win this all-star thing, you’re one of the biggest culinary names in the city. If this company can use you and say,  _ hey, look, Killian Jones is buying from us _ , that’s a huge thing.”   
  
“So what are you saying?”   
  
“That they want you to do this Killian and they’re willing to knock some off the price now and down the line if you can continue to prove your worth it.”   
  
“In other words,” Regina said. “If you win this thing.”   
  
Killian’s shoulders sagged noticeably and he nearly got up and walked away. Not because he had to win in order to get some sort of warehouse-owning company to acknowledge him, but because if he won this  _ thing _ , that meant Emma lost. 

And, somehow, that made his heart stutter just a bit. 

Fuck. 

That was unexpected. 

He knew her for four days and a few hours and, somehow, Emma Swan had gotten under his skin faster and more effectively than just about anyone in his entire life. Not since…

She’d asked about it and as soon as the words were out her mouth, he’d silently cursed himself for wearing short sleeves and moving his arm enough that she could see the tattoo. He’d been short with her too – that stupid temper getting the better of him before he could stop himself – and Killian saw the ways her eyes ducked slightly when he answered, how she took a step back and retreated back into herself a little bit in the process. 

Emma had walls and nerves and several things that Killian was positive she wanted to keep to herself, but so did he. If they could find some middle ground between those two desires, he thought, maybe, this could all work. 

And then he hated himself for wanting it to. 

“What do you think Killian?” Robin asked, oblivious to his train of thoughts and a brand-new apparent fixation with blonde hair and green eyes. 

“About?”   
  
“Killian,” he sighed. 

“The restaurant, Uncle Killian,” Roland pointed out, poking his hand into his arm. 

“Ah, thanks, mate,” Killian said, flashing a smile at the kid next to him. He glanced back at Robin. “I don’t know. Honestly. I hadn’t thought about Brooklyn and I hadn’t thought about redoing an entire building either. It just sounds like a lot of work.”   
  
“But it’s work that you don’t have to be doing,” Robin argued. “You just have to focus on cooking and winning. And you can do that.”   
  
“You can absolutely do that,” Regina added. Killian was always caught off guard by her forays into supportive friend instead of demanding producer and the smile on her face made him wonder if she and Robin had planned this conversation earlier. 

“I know I can,” Killian admitted. 

He could. He could win. He  _ should _ win. 

He shouldn’t be worried about anyone else – least of all some woman with sky-high walls and a kid and, quite possibly, the most beautiful smile Killian had ever seen in his entire life. 

He squeezed his eyes shut tightly and considered his options – a voice he regularly tried to ignore sounded through his head, words from over a decade ago floating through his brain.  A man unwilling to fight for what he wants, deserves what he gets.

He had to do it. 

Killian wanted too much – and he absolutely couldn’t want Emma. So he had no choice but to focus on the restaurant and, as per usual, on the food. 

“Tell them we’re in,” he said to Robin, dropping his hand onto Roland’s shoulder like it was some sort of unspoken support. “And tell them that I’m going to win this thing.”

* * *

She made french toast.

Henry stared at her speculatively as Emma piled his plate with what might have actually been half a dozen slices of bread, but didn’t say a word, reaching for the maple syrup instead. “This is good,” he mumbled, battling through a mouthful of food. 

“Chew first and then compliment,” Emma said, unable to mask the smile on her face. 

She could use the compliments to calm down the nerves she couldn’t quite rationalize. She’d woken up with them – the first time Emma could remember being nervous about cooking in years – and couldn’t find a way to shake them as she went through her usual morning routine. 

So, she made french toast instead. It was, even she had to admit, a bit selfish. Emma knew Henry loved french toast, knew she’d work a compliment out of him and knew she needed that quick reassurance from her 12-year-old to make her calm down a little bit. 

It was all starting today. 

It was ‘Cutthroat Kitchen’ day and Emma was, to put it simply, nervous. Scared out of her mind worked too, but just nervous seemed a bit more mature and a bit more understandable for someone with their own cooking show and two best-selling cookbooks. 

Ruby had already texted with the schedule for the day – get to the studio by nine, promo photos at ten, start filming by twelve, film talking heads at four and, if everything went according to plan, be done by six o’clock. 

It wouldn’t go according to plan – that was probably the only thing Emma was certain of, but it was nice to pretend like they could stick to a schedule. 

Henry reached forward to grab the maple syrup again, seemingly intent on drowning his bread in it and Emma stared at him. “What?” he asked, voice bordering on innocent and mouth still full of french toast. 

“No one in the history of the world has ever needed that much maple syrup on french toast.”  
  
“It’s good.”   
  
“I know it’s good, but you don’t need that sugar. Especially not at whatever time it is right now.”   
  
“Mom,” Henry whined, drawing the three letters out and rolling his whole body in frustration. 

“Nuh uh, don’t mom me,” Emma said, pulling the bottle away from her son and putting it back in the fridge before Henry could say anything else. “That’s not going to work today.”   
  
“Today?”   
  
“Yeah,” Emma confirmed. “I’m all about the responsibility today.”   
  
“So it could be different on another day?” Henry asked, a knowing smile on his face. Emma rolled her eyes – coming up short of that responsibility mandate already. Henry laughed loudly, pressing the side of his fork into the french toast again and grinning widely at her. “I’m kidding, mostly.”   
  
“Sure you are, kid,” Emma said, reaching forward to push the hair out of Henry’s eyes. Mary Margaret had been as good as her word before, cutting his hair after the pizza, but it somehow seemed to always find a way into Henry’s eyes. He scrunched his nose at the touch, pulling back and nearly falling off the kitchen stool he was sitting on.

“Come on, when you’re done eating go finish getting ready,” she continued, ignoring the way her heart lurched at her almost-teenager’s reaction. “You’ve got to get to school and Mary Margaret’s going to be here in like fifteen minutes.”

Henry nodded in response, still chewing the mountain of french toast Emma had made. He jumped up when he was finished, fork clanging on the side of the plate as he dropped it. “Thanks for the stressed-cooking french toast,” he said pointedly, shooting her a smile before jogging down the hallway to change into his uniform. 

Emma’s mouth hung open as he moved. She shouldn’t have been surprised – Henry had always been ridiculously good at reading her. It probably had something to do with being a two-person team and a joint us-against-the-world mindset, but Emma didn’t have time to think about that. 

And he was right, of course. 

She was absolutely stress-cooking. She did that. It was something about the control and the food and making something. Emma didn’t have time to think about that either. 

She was too preoccupied with thoughts of cooking on camera and battling fellow chefs and how to best spend her money on sabotages – because that’s how this show worked. Ruby had explained it all to her the day before and then followed with up another pointed  _ don’t you watch your own network’s shows _ comment for good measure. 

Emma didn’t. She’d never seen Cutthroat Kitchen, only had a vague idea of what it was about and now that she did, she had a ball of anxiety and nerves sitting in the pit of her stomach that just wouldn’t seem to go away – even after she’d made the french toast. 

“Here’s how it goes,” Ruby had told her. “Archie gives you something to make and then you get $25,000 to spend on auctions to buy sabotages that will make it almost impossible for the rest of them to cook. There’s three rounds, someone gets eliminated after each one and you only get to keep the money you have left after the auctions if you win. Got it?”   
Emma had nodded – she got it. And she knew who her competition was. Killian Jones. Of course. 

She tried to rationalize that she didn’t know him very well – just a few days and a few conversations and one bandaged hand – but Emma got the distinct impression that he could, and would, be ruthless in the kitchen. He was the only chef who had his own restaurant and Emma knew that kind of thing made a person a bit more determined. 

Killian wasn’t just fighting for his status on the network – he was fighting for his reputation off it and he wouldn’t go down easy. So, she’d done her best to get ready for this metaphorical battle, stress-cooking and ignoring her nerves and mixing in hot chocolate with her coffee as some sort of pre-filming good luck charm. 

Emma was so lost in her own thoughts, she didn’t hear the knock on the door or Henry’s shout from his room, only lifting her head up when he came barreling down the hallway, uniform tie swinging around his neck. 

He threw her an exasperated look before swinging the door open to reveal a very put-together Mary Margaret. 

“Don’t you have a key?” Emma asked as her sister-in-law walked through the door. “And should you be carrying that?” She eyed the bag on Mary Margaret’s shoulder wondering how exactly she’d managed to get out of the apartment without David spouting off some stat about pregnancy and weight and  _ exerting yourself _ . 

Mary Margaret rolled her eyes and crossed her arms, pressing the bag against her side. “I swear, between you and your brother, you make it seem like I’m made of glass. There’s one book in there and a couple of sheets of paper for lesson plans.”   
  
Emma laughed softly as she stood up, raising her hands in surrender. “Hey, don’t lump me into this. I know you’re fully capable of carrying bags until you actually have this kid. I just was curious how David didn’t forcibly pull the bag out your hands before you walked out the door this morning.”   
  
“He was already gone by the time I left.”   
  
“Really?”   
  
That took Emma by surprise. David had always been bordering on ridiculously overprotective – something she was positive was a product of growing up with a single-mom and a foster sister he’d found in the alley – but he’d taken it to a whole other level when Mary Margaret found out she was pregnant three months before. 

She wasn’t even showing yet and David rarely let her move on her own without offering his arm or helping her up or talking about  _ exerting _ herself. Emma was positive that was his new favorite word. She and Mary Margaret had started keeping track of the number of times he used it during family dinners and, at last count, he’d mentioned it fourteen times. 

Fourteen. Times. 

“He left before you?” Emma repeated, the mug in her hand frozen halfway to her mouth. “When’s the last time that happened?”   
  
“Probably before I got pregnant, honestly. But there was stuff going on at the precinct and he got called in at like six this morning.”

Emma made a face – trying to calm a whole new batch of nerves at the idea of David getting called in at six in the morning for some sort of police issue. Mary Margaret was probably already worried enough, she didn’t need a double dose of it from Emma. 

“Can somebody help me out with this?” Henry asked and both women’s heads snapped towards him, the ends of his tie held helplessly in his hands. 

Mary Margaret laughed under her breath, but Emma was quicker, moving towards Henry in a few steps and pulling the fabric out of his hands. She tied it without thinking about it, well-practiced after a year spent waitressing at a midtown diner with a very specific black and white dress code. 

“You’re going to choke me,” Henry mumbled. 

“You’re fine,” Emma argued. “And it needs to be this way so it doesn’t come undone in the middle of the day and you end up with an untied tie and a snarky note from the principal again.”   
  
“I haven’t had a note in like two weeks.”   
  
“A week and a half.”

Henry groaned and Mary Margaret laughed again, walking towards them and putting her hand on his shoulder. “If it comes undone, find me and I’ll fix it,” she promised. “And don’t sass your mom, she’s nervous about the show.”   
  
“She made french toast,” Henry added. 

“Super nervous then.”   
  
“I am standing right here,” Emma sighed. She also didn’t argue either of their points. Mary Margaret and Henry didn’t say anything else, just glanced at each other in silent agreement over Emma’s nerves. 

“Good luck today, mom,” Henry said, effectively changing the subject and ignoring Emma’s tilted head and wide eyes. “Be super cutthroat or whatever.”   
  
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Emma ruffled Henry’s hair quickly, earning a very specific type of groan in response, and flattened her hand over his tie again. “I’m not going to be done until later so go home with M’s, ok?”   
  
Henry nodded and Mary Margaret shot Emma an encouraging smile. “Can we go to Granny’s later? To celebrate you winning?”   
  
The ball of anxiety that seemed to have taken up residency in Emma’s stomach evaporated in the span of four words and one question from a confident and smiling 12-year-old kid. “We can absolutely go to Granny’s.”

“Any one tell you how awesome you are yet today?” Henry asked and Emma was fairly positive she was going to cry in the middle of her kitchen. Mary Margaret sniffled next to her and Emma shot her a curious glance.

“Hormones,” she mumbled. 

“Not yet,” Emma said, pulling Henry closer to her. “But thanks for looking out.”   
Henry grinned at her, nodding enthusiastically. “You’re totally going to win.”

“You want us to meet you at Granny’s?” Mary Margaret asked, hitching up the bag on her shoulder and turning back towards the door. 

“Yeah, that’s probably easier,” Emma answered. “I have no idea what time this is actually all going to wrap up so if I’m not there by seven, eat without me ok?”   
  
“We can wait.”   
  
“You don’t have to.”   
  
“We will.”   
  
And Emma knew they would. Because between the three of them, Emma had found some sort of built-in cheering section, willing to wait on dinner and believe in her and a whole slew of other emotional boxes that she was still almost positive she didn’t entirely deserve. 

“Go before you guys are late for school,” Emma said, blinking quickly to ignore the  _ feeling _ in her eye. Henry beamed at her, shaking his head slightly to “fix” the hair Emma had messed up, and followed Mary Margaret out the door, careful not to slam it shut behind him. 

Emma took a deep breath, finally taking a sip of her now luke-warm coffee-hot chocolate hybrid and nodded once to herself. She put the mug back into the sink and slid into her well-worn sneakers, hoping no one made her change once she got to the studio. 

It was time to get cutthroat. 

Emma got to the studio half an hour later – five minutes  _ ahead _ of schedule – and leaned against the back of the makeup chair she’d once again found herself sitting in, shutting her eyes slightly. 

“This is always my least favorite part,” Belle said softly from the chair next to Emma. “It always seems no unnecessary.”   
  
“It’s for the glare,” Anna, her producer, explained and Emma got the impression that this wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation. For a group of network all-stars, none of these network all-stars seemed particularly happy about having to participate in a year-long filming schedule.    
  
“I know,” Belle sighed. “But it always makes my face feel heavy.”   
  
Emma laughed at that, opening one eye to glance at the pastry chef next to her. “That’s what I’m talking about,” she said. The tell-tale sound of Ruby’s heels announced her producer’s arrival in the room and Emma glanced over her shoulder only to be met with a slightly frustrated glare. 

“New highlights?’ she asked, pulling one side of her mouth up into an almost-innocent smile. “They look redder or something.”

Ruby’s eyes narrowed and she pressed her lips together tightly. “Yes,” she said shortly. “Same complaints about everything going on today?”   
  
“I’m not complaining about everything going on today, just the amount of makeup that Belle and I have to wear.”   
  
“Don’t let her rope you into this too,” Ruby sighed, glancing at Belle who simply looked like she’d rather not be involved in the conversation at all. 

“If we’re being honest, I was the one who brought it up,” Belle said. 

Ruby just groaned, sinking into the other chair next to Emma and propping her feet up on the counter in front of her. “Check you out, rebel with a cause,” Emma muttered and Ruby made a face, sticking her tongue out for good measure. “I’m just saying, it hardly seems fair that the two of us,” she nodded towards Belle, “have to sit in these chairs for forty-five minutes and get caked in makeup when I haven’t seen Killian and Graham walk into this room once since I got here. And I was totally five minutes early, by the way.”  
  
Ruby opened her mouth to say something, swinging her feet back onto the ground, but she didn’t get the chance, interrupted by a flash of blue eyes and black hair and the most ridiculously self-confident smile Emma had ever seen in her entire life. 

Killian’s eyes landed on Emma and she did her best to keep her gaze steady. She was focused on the competition and the photo shoot and giving up some sort of personal information when she had to explain why she chose her charity – she didn’t have time for quasi-flirting and cocky Iron Chefs. 

“We had to get here even earlier than you, Swan,” he said, eyes practically boring a hole into her head. “They’re staggering the photos you see.”  
  
Emma’s mouth hung open for the second time that day and she didn’t particularly appreciate being taken by surprise again. It made sense – of course it did. 

“Plus,” Ruby added, finally getting her voice back. “It takes longer to do your hair.”  
  
Emma scoffed. “Not all of us can get away with running some gel in our hair and walking into the kitchen with the artfully mussed look,” she muttered, not even trying to mask the bitterness in her voice. 

Belle and Anna laughed loudly, but Killian just continued to smirk at her, walking farther into the room and leaning against counter in front of Emma. He crossed his arms lightly over his chest and crossed his legs so his knees were only a few feet away from Emma’s thighs. “You think I actually use gel in my hair?” he asked softly, eyebrows drawn low. It caught her surprise again and Emma laughed before she could stop herself. 

His answering grin should have been illegal. 

“I have no idea.”   
  
“I think you’re thinking about my hair, Swan.”   
  
“I think you’re trying to get into my head before we cook on a show that has the word ‘cutthroat’ in the title.”   
  
“You think I’m playing mind games with you right now?” Killian asked, almost looking honestly affronted at the accusation. 

Emma shrugged. “I don’t know.”   
  
He stared at her for a beat, like he was trying to read her mind and, not for the first time, Emma hoped he couldn’t. She didn’t need him to realize that if he  _ was _ playing mind games he’d done a pretty good job of unsettling her already – all sarcasm and talk and something just below the surface that might actually be honesty. 

“I’m not,” he said simply and, for some reason, Emma believed him. 

She could feel Ruby staring at her and knew she’d have to have some sort of conversation with her producer about this conversation with her competition and Emma was not looking forward to that moment at all. 

Anna’s phone rang in the otherwise silent makeup room and Killian chuckled softly when Emma jumped in her chair. She shot him a glare – which did nothing to stop the laughter – and heard Anna mutter something into the phone. 

“We’ve got to go,” she announced, hand on Belle’s shoulder. “Promotional shot time.”   
  
“Duty calls,” Belle said, a picture of positivity as she pushed herself out of the chair and followed her producer out the door. 

Emma groaned. And Killian laughed at her again. 

“Entertained, huh?” Emma asked, finally standing up and pushing her hair off her shoulders. His eyebrows shot up and his eyes lingered on the side of her neck for a moment before he coughed and shook his head. 

“You do have to admit that you don’t seem very enthused about this whole thing, love.”

“That’s because she’s stubborn,” Ruby said, heels still resting in front of her. 

“What the hell, Rubes?” Emma sighed. “We’re supposed to be a team or something. You’re supposed to support me unequivocally and without question.”

“And I do. When you’re not being stubborn.”

Ruby smiled at her – that same vaguely wolfish look, a mix of confidence and determination that had led Emma to her current status as network all-star – and walked out the door without another word, the sound of her heels ricocheting off the walls. 

Emma groaned again, her entire body rolling with frustration as she leaned her head up towards the ceiling. Killian laughed again and Emma’s head snapped towards him. “I swear to God, if you don’t stop laughing at me…”   
  
“I’m not laughing at you, Swan,” he corrected quickly, pushing off the counter and walking towards her until he was just a few inches away. “I’m laughing at the fight you’re putting up when I know you want to win.”   
  
Of course he knew that. 

_ Open book _ . 

“And you don’t?” Emma countered, not bothering to confirm his assumption when she was fairly positive he already knew he was right.

Killian shrugged. “Of course I do.”   
  
“So…”   
  
“So what?”   
  
“So that leaves us where?”

Killian’s eyes widened for a moment and one side of his mouth ticked up – and for one, crazy moment Emma almost thought he was going to kiss her. He took a deep breath and rocked back and forth on his heels for a moment before reaching his hand out to wrap around Emma’s right wrist, lifting up her hand and staring at it. 

“What are you doing?” Emma asked, voice cracking traitorously as she spoke. 

He didn’t move his eyes, staring at her hand like it was the first time he was looking at it. He twisted it slightly, tilting his head to examine it from a different angle and Emma bit her lip, that ball of nerves and anxiety returning to the pit of her stomach for a completely different reason than earlier that morning. 

“You changed the gauze,” he said softly after a few more minutes and Emma couldn’t the remember the last time she’d taken a breath. 

“I have a kid,” she answered. “I know how germs work.”

She could feel the breath of his laughter on her hand and Emma silently hoped he didn’t notice the goosebumps that had shot up her arm. He did of course, but he was, as promised, a gentleman – ignoring the very visible signs of her nerves with him so close to her. 

Emma, finally, took a deep breath, trying to get some oxygen back to her brain so she didn’t pass out before she took a single promotional photo. And then Killian’s thumb was tracing across her palm – right along where the cut had been – and Emma couldn’t breathe all over again. 

“It didn’t scar,” he said, voice still dangerously low. “That’s good.”   
  
Emma nodded slowly. “It wasn’t that deep.”   
  
Killian’s hand dropped away from hers as soon as Emma spoke, like he suddenly remembered where he was and  _ who _ he was and who she was and she certainly shouldn’t have been as disappointed as she was when he took a step back. 

“Thanks for helping,” Emma said quickly, desperately trying to keep the moment alive. She was only a little terrified of what would happen if she did. Killian stopped moving, frozen to the spot in the room and he smiled softly at her, running his hand through his hair quickly. 

“Always ready to help the fair maiden in need,” he said and, just like that, the moment was over. The smirk was back and Emma was only a little frustrated. 

She scoffed, letting out a huff of breath through her nose as she shook her head. “Trust me, I’m not a fair maiden,” she said. “And I hardly need to be rescued.”   
  
“I don’t doubt that.”   
  
He needed to stop doing that – switching gears so quickly and so frequently that Emma’s head was spinning. “I have to go get my picture taken,” Emma said and she appreciated the surprised look on Killian’s face. Give him some of his own whiplash. 

“It won’t be as bad as you think, Swan,” he said. “Make sure you look properly menacing though. They’ll eat that up.”   
  
“Noted.”   
  
He grinned at her and took a step to the side, letting her walk out in front of him. Emma moved into the hallway, all too aware of Killian’s footsteps behind her and she tried to will the goosebumps on her arm to go away. They didn’t. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, guys, I am so sorry for missing the last update. Real life and jobs and the weather messing up your entire schedule are the absolute worst. Here are, like, 9000 words to make up for it. As always, thank you for every single click, comment and kudos. And a very loud YOU'RE THE BEST to @laurnorder for, well, being the best and reading, like, 9000 words. 
> 
> Come flail with me on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	6. Chapter 6

He was right. Emma wouldn’t tell him, but he was. The photo shoot was fine. It was, almost, fun. They played music and made her pose with Belle – something about being the two women in the competition or some other gender-based nonsense that would have been offensive if Emma didn’t like the pastry chef so much.

And, two hours and one quick lunch later, Emma was almost excited at the prospect of cooking on a TV show that had cutthroat in the title.

She was third in line at the top of the stairs that led to the kitchen studio, tasked with the job of walking down without, one, falling and, two, looking vaguely competitive while she moved.

“How’d it go?” Killian muttered, glancing over his shoulder at Emma while Belle walked down the stairs first.

“How’d what go? And stop talking, you’re going to get me in trouble.”

“First of all, I’d get both of us in trouble because we’re both talking. Second of all, we won’t get in trouble because I regularly feed Regina’s entire family so she can’t yell at me and run the risk of losing that. And third of all, I am genuinely curious.”  
  
Emma narrowed her eyes at him for a moment, looking for some trace of a lie. There wasn’t one. “You regularly feed Regina’s entire family?”

“Almost every night, actually.”  
  
“What?”

Emma didn’t get an answer, cut off by Regina hissing _Killian_ from her spot at the top of the stairs. He grinned at her, raising his eyebrows quickly and marching towards his spot in a few steps, the confidence practically radiating off him. He glanced at Emma again, raising his right hand and crossing his fingers at her before winking at Regina and walking down the stairs, onto the set.

“I’m going to kill him,” Regina muttered and Emma bit back a laugh.

“Is he always like that?” Emma asked, moving up towards the mark. “All cocky swagger and everything?” Regina looked surprised that Emma was even talking to her and blinked a few times before she answered.

“No,” Regina said quietly, eyes darting between Emma and the main studio floor. “Not always.”

She waited for more of an explanation, but it never came and Regina simply nodded towards the stairs when it was Emma’s turn to walk down. They weren’t slated to film their talking heads until later that afternoon, so there was no voiceover when Emma moved like there would be on the show and she bit the inside of her lip tightly, doing her best not to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.

Emma made it to her station without falling or otherwise making a fool of herself, which she counted as a victory, and laid her knives out in front of her.

“You did good, Swan,” Killian muttered from the station next to her. “Looked super menacing and competitive.”  
  
“Good,” she said simply and she saw his smile grow more pronounced out of the corner of her eye. Graham was the last chef to come down the stairs and Emma was glad she hadn’t had to watch everyone come out, because this whole thing was bordering dangerously close to absurd.

Emma chanced a look in Killian’s direction to find him staring pointedly at the counter in front of him, shoulders tense with the laughter she somehow knew he was trying to hold in. “I didn’t look like that, did I?”

He beamed at her, eyes meeting hers quickly and, now, Emma was the one biting her lip. “Look who’s talking now.”  
  
“You started it.”   
  
Killian nodded solemnly at her, still smiling as Graham sorted out his own cutlery and Belle did something that sounded vaguely like trash talk. They’d been told to do that too – Emma was slightly preoccupied.

“No,” Killian said, brushing off her slightly-teenage accusation. “As mentioned you looked super menacing. Made me reconsider my whole cutthroat strategy for a few moments.”  
  
“That so?”   
  
“Well, I was thinking that I’d try and take you out first, you know, get rid of the fine French chef from the get-go, but I don’t know, maybe I’ll let you stick around for a little while now. Keep things interesting as it were.”

“You don’t need to go soft on me,” Emma shot back. “I’m not planning on taking it easy on you.”

“I have no doubt, love.”

Regina cleared her throat – somehow making her way down the stairs without anyone on set noticing she was there – and stared at the four chefs in front of her. “You all know the deal about being on camera, so I’m not even going to talk about that. There won’t be retakes because we’re all actually cooking here. Archie will give you instructions on what to prepare for each round and, I’d like to remind you all, that the money you’ll get in a moment and the sabotages you bid on will all be very, very real. So take that into account when you’re bidding and tearing each other apart. Enjoy!”  
  
Emma stared at the woman as she walked away, moving to the side of the set to stand next to Ruby and Anna, before glancing questioningly at Killian. “She’s very focused when she’s on set,” he whispered. “I promise she’s not always evil.”

She smiled at him – completely charmed against her will – and only stopped staring when Archie Hopper, the absolutely ironic host of Cutthroat Kitchen walked into the studio.

Once upon a time, Archie Hopper had his own cooking show on the network, something to do with science and how food actually cooked that Henry was obsessed with – watching through the episodes on Netflix as soon as they were added a few months before. He looked the part too, sweater vest on and thick-rimmed glasses and a nervous energy that made Emma want to laugh again.

Killian already was, lips twisted up as Archie explained the rules that they’d all already heard from their respective producers. Emma did her best to focus her attention on Archie and his instructions and what she was supposed to be cooking in this first round.

“What I want for this first round is something I’m sure you’ve all had before, plenty of carb-loading during school,” Archie said, smiling at the four of them. Emma trained her eyes ahead of her, ignoring the stare she could feel from Killian’s direction. “You four, the best and brightest this network has to offer, are going to cook us the greatest potato skins you’ve ever made in the history of your cooking-lives. You’ve got 30 seconds to grab everything you need out of this mini-market and your time starts...now.”

Emma barely registered the words Archie was saying before her feet were moving, dashing across the studio in a move she was positive Henry would make fun of once the episode aired. Her mind was moving faster than her feet and she started grabbing food off the shelves around her – potatoes, salt, pepper, three different types of cheese, bacon. She bobbed on her feet in front of the refrigerator and tried to rack her brain for something that would set her food apart from the three other chefs around her.

“Don’t forget the scallions,” Killian muttered, nudging her shoulder with an overwhelming sense of familiarity. “They’re nothing without scallions.”

“I don’t need your help.”  
  
“I’m not suggesting you do, love. I’m only pointing out that every good, traditional potato skin, which incidentally appears to be what you’re making, has scallions on it.”   
  
“I know that,” Emma hissed, reaching forward to grab the bag in front of her.

Archie started counting down the seconds left on their shopping-clock and Emma made a face, sneering slightly at Killian as she walked out of the room quickly, him just a few steps behind her.

She glanced over at his basket on the station next to hers, only to be taken aback by what she saw. Sweet potatoes. He didn’t have a single _regular_ potato in the basket – just sweet potatoes and cinnamon sugar and gouda and something else. “Is that turkey?” Emma asked. Killian’s head snapped up and he smiled knowingly at her.

“When’s the last time you made potato skins, Swan?”

“That’s not important,” she brushed off quickly and his smile got bigger. She’d never made potato skins – he was right, of course, it wasn’t on the menu at any fancy, French restaurant she’d ever worked at before and it certainly hadn’t made an appearance in her latest cookbook.

“Of course not,” he agreed.

“And when’s the last time you made potato skins?” she asked. “It not exactly high-brow food.”  
  
“I’m not exactly a high-brow chef. Contrary to the reviews. And, as mentioned, I regularly feed a six-year-old cheeseburgers, so I’d wager I’m a bit more familiar with potato skins than you are.”

She turned her head to stare at him, a mixture of surprise and interest and _open book_ on her face and Killian did something with his eyebrows.

Emma only hoped their latest interaction – and, maybe something that was certainly starting to take on a flirting-type shape – hadn’t been caught on camera.

Archie was still talking, dolling out bundles of money and explaining how the auctions worked in each round. She only started to pay attention when he tapped on the small window on the side of the studio, opening up the wall to pull out a Swiss Army knife. “What the fuck,” Emma mumbled under her breath.

“Language, Swan,” Killian whispered, eyes flashing towards her and, God, he needed to stop smiling at her like that.

“Bid on this,” Archie said, holding the knife up for display. “And you can confiscate one of your fellow chef’s entire cutlery set. They’ll have to cut and slice and figure out how to make potato skins with just this do-it-all device. We’ll start the bidding at $500.”  
  
Emma had a system – she and Henry had come up with it the night before. Only bid to drive up the cost. Or, if she absolutely could not handle the sabotage. And she could handle this sabotage.

Belle and Graham bid each other up to $3,000 and neither Emma nor Killian made a move, except to occasionally glance at each other conspiratorially. There was something going on here and Emma wasn’t sure she’d call it an alliance – mostly curiosity. She wanted to watch him cook.   

Archie yelled _sold_ and Emma turned on the spot – surprised that anything had happened while she was busy having some sort of internal conversation with herself – to find that Belle had won the knife. Archie handed her the contraption and she walked slowly in front of the three other chefs, eyes landing on Emma.

“I’m sorry about this,” she said softly. And she looked it, putting the knife slowly on Emma’s station as the perfect set of cutting tools she’d specifically washed the night before were removed.

Emma did her best not to sigh. Damn. “Tough break, Swan,” Killian said next to her. “I know how attached you are to your knives.”  
  
“Shut up.”

He laughed softly and this was going to look so bad when it aired. They were blatantly flirting – Belle practically ran back to her station as soon as they started bantering back and forth again.

“Alright,” Archie said, gazing pointedly at Emma and Killian. “If you two are done being painfully adorable, we’ve got one more item for you all to bid on before you start cooking.”

Emma’s lips pressed together tightly and she knew her face was red. Killian rolled his shoulders and ran his hand through his hair again – a tell. He had a tell and, now, Emma had picked up on it.

Archie tapped on the wall again and was presented with a plate – filled with actual potato skins, crudely peeled off in tiny pieces, and a bowl of skinless potatoes.

“Win this,” Archie said, “and you can swap out one of your opponent’s potatoes, all of them, for these almost-potatoes.” He laughed loudly, pressing his hands together tightly. “Now, let’s see who’s the most cutthroat.”  
  
“A thousand,” Killian said immediately, hand still tugging on the piece of hair behind his ear.

“Fifteen hundred,” Emma added quickly. He shot her a glare and she just grinned, shrugging. She couldn’t have that garbage. She was barely certain she knew how to make a potato skin to begin with – she couldn’t cope with scraps of food. And Killian, very clearly, had a plan and potato skin experience.

She was just taking out the competition. That was what she was doing. It was Cutthroat Kitchen. It was part of the rules.

“Two,” Killian muttered softly.

“Four,” Emma countered.

“That’s cheating, Swan,” he accused, but his eyes were almost amused. “You can’t just jump up on the numbers like that.”  
  
“It’s called strategy.”   
  
“Bad form.”   
  
“I am playing the game.”   
  
“Anyone want to go for five?” Archie said. “Probably pretty difficult to make potato skins without whole potatoes.”   
  
“What do you say, Mr. Iron Chef?” Emma asked, doing her best to infuse her voice with as much sweetness as possible. Killian smiled sarcastically at her in response. “Ball’s in your bidding court.”   
  
“Mind games,” he muttered, shaking his head and reaching in the basket to pull out the half a dozen sweet potatoes he’d taken out of the mini-market. “You win, Swan. Let her have ‘em, Archie.”   
  
Archie nodded and called Emma forward, handing her the tray with the instructions to give the items to the chef she thought would be hindered most by the potato scraps. She put on a pretty good show of trying to decide, walking in front of the stations until Killian sighed dramatically, rolling his head forward and widening his eyes at her.

“Put them down, love,” he said softly. “You don’t have to make it seem like there was a choice.”

“I would say that I’m sorry, but I’m absolutely not.”  
  
“And here I didn’t bid on that knife set for you.”   
  
“For me?” Emma repeated. “I think you just wanted to save your money. Isn’t that why you got cheap at the end here?”

He crossed his arms over his chest, twisting the _Iron Chef_ emblem in the left corner, and leveled her with an almost-serious gaze. “I’m choosing to see it as confident. I’m simply confident that I can still beat you, even with scraps of food.”   
  
“Asshole,” Emma mumbled, slamming the tray down on his station and earning an appreciative chuckle for her emotional outburst.

And, suddenly, she realized, he was _still_ playing mind games with her – that cocky, confident bravado a cover-up for how much she might actually be affecting him. That was unexpected.

“And, anyway, I hate sweet potatoes,” she said, turning on her heel and marching back to her station without another word, ignoring his slightly stunned expression and how blue his eyes were when he got surprised.

“You’ve got 30 minutes to make the most delicious potato skins in the history of culinary competition,” Archie said. “Go.”  
  
Game on.

* * *

What was he supposed to do with these?

Killian stared at the scraps of potato and skins sitting in a bowl in front of him and ignored Emma’s quiet laughter from the station next to him. He’d had a plan – sweet and savory and set to make their debut on The Jolly Roger’s fall menu later that month. And Emma Swan had seen right through it, handing him this _garbage_ with a smile on her face and a challenge on her lips.

And he’d fallen for it.

 _I hate sweet potatoes_.

It shouldn’t have made his head hurt or his breath catch, but it did both and, Killian knew, very suddenly, that Emma had taken the lead in the unspoken mind games they were playing. He took a deep breath and glared at the stupid food on his station again, determined to come up with another plan.

Deconstructed. Deconstructed potato skins. With turkey and gouda and maybe a few stolen scallions from Emma’s station if he could keep her distracted for a few seconds.

“Everything going ok over there?” she asked, voice doing that _sugary-sweet_ thing again and Killian bit his lip tightly before answering.   
  
“Everything is fine, Swan, but thanks for looking out.”  
  
Her head snapped towards him – wide-eyed and lips slightly parted. He’d said something, that much was obvious, but for the life of him, Killian couldn’t figure out what it was. He took a step towards her out of instinct – not quite sure when he’d picked that up – and felt his hand move towards her, resting on her wrist again like it had in the makeup room a few hours before. “Swan?” he asked softly, ducking his head so he was in her eyeline. “You ok?”   
  
“Fine,” she said quickly, stepping back. She shook her head, like she was trying to refocus her energy and looked at him like they barely knew each other, which, Killian was disappointed to admit, was actually true. “You better go cook. I can’t wait to see how you deal with bits of potato skins.”   
  
“I’ll figure it out.”   
  
“I’ve got no doubt.”

Emma blinked once, nodding again before refocusing her energy on her own food and Killian got the distinct impression that she’d said more than she anticipated. He smiled at her back, laughing softly under his breath as he ran his hand through his hair and moved back to his station, Emma’s words ringing in his ears.

He was fairly positive 30 minutes had never gone so fast in his entire life and by the time Archie counted down the final ten seconds of the round, Killian was barely able to get his food on the plate in time. He’d done it though – deconstructed _something_ that he’d have to sell a bit during judging.

“What is that?” Emma asked, leaning up on tiptoes to glance at his station.

“A win,” he said simply.

“You’re something else.”  
  
“And what would that be, love?”   
  
“Too confident for your own good.”   
  
“There’s no such thing.”

Emma huffed slightly, falling back on her heels and crossing her arms tightly. She flipped her hair, pulled up into a ponytail while she was cooking, back over shoulder – something Killian noticed she did whenever she was feeling something.

A tell – Emma Swan had a tell and Killian had just figured it out. Maybe they did know each other a little bit.

Archie introduced the judge for the day – Tink Greenburg, another Iron Chef – and Killian smiled pointedly at Emma, drawing another hair flip out of her in the process. The host was still talking and Killian was still staring at Emma. He needed to stop doing that.

He chanced a glance at her plate and grinned before he could stop himself – they looked _perfect_. It wasn’t anything out-of-the-culinary-box and she’d clearly focused on the traditional,  but even Killian had to admit that the food looked good – and smelled even better.

“Color me impressed, Swan,” he muttered. “Those almost look edible.”  
  
“Not only are they edible,” she responded in stride, “they’re ten times better than whatever you made with your slop.”   
  
“Slop?” Killian laughed, turning to face her as he leaned his hip up against the counter in front of him. “In case you’ve forgotten, you gave me that slop.”

“Worth every penny.”

Tink finished trying Graham’s food, commenting on everything from taste to texture to _plating_ and Killian strained to hear what exactly she’d said. It didn’t seem positive – at least not if Graham’s frustrated sigh and sneaker-scuff along the linoleum floor of the kitchen were any indication.

“Emma,” Archie said, approaching her station. “This is Tink, Tink this is Emma host of one of our most popular instructional shows here on the network, The Kitchen, and her latest cookbook was a _New York Times_ bestseller.”  
  
He didn’t know that. Killian was staring again, but now he was mostly impressed.

“But, you, of course don’t care anything about that,” Archie continued, waving his hand over Emma’s dish. “We care about this. Tell us your potato skin tale, Emma.”  
  
He watched Emma take a deep breath, linking her fingers behind her back and smiling at the two people in front of her. “I decided to keep things traditional here, except for the cheese. Three different cheeses – cheddar, mozzarella and pepperjack. Then, of course, bacon and a couple of scallions for taste and some color.”

She glanced over at him at the mention of scallions – or maybe he just _wanted_ her to glance over at him.   
  
He did.

He wanted her to look over at him. And he absolutely shouldn’t.

Emma Swan was a distraction – one Killian was almost positive would be worth it.

Tink commented on the food, throwing out words like _delicious_ and _simple_ and _perfect_ , but Killian couldn’t have cared less about the critique. He watched Emma the whole time, eyes practically boring a hole into the side of her face, waiting for every miniscule movement, every tiny response. He noticed the way her teeth pressed into her bottom lip and how her thumb kept tapping on her hand behind her back and how she kept shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

And goddamn if he wasn’t completely charmed by it.

“Tink, I’m sure you’re already well acquainted with our fourth and final chef,” Archie said, appearing at his station seemingly out of thin air. He’d been too busy staring at Emma to realize they’d moved on to him.

Tink nodded. “Nice to see you again, Killian.”  
  
“Always a pleasure,” he muttered. Tink smiled at him and Killian’s right hand ghosted over his left – that rarely happened anymore.

“And what exactly do you have here?” Archie asked, eyeing the plate in front of him with trepidation.

Killian took a deep breath, pulling his hands away from each other and staring straight ahead – he could feel Emma looking at him. He straightened his shoulders again and plastered a smile on his face – falling into the TV personality with practiced ease. Tink waited patiently, one side of her mouth tilted up with interest.

“Deconstructed potato skins,” Killian said simply. “You’ve got the crunch of the potato skin on the side and then the actual potato itself holds all the fillings. So you can get as much as you want of each one whenever you take a bite.”  
  
“And the filling?” Tink asked, reaching forward to grab some of the food.

“Turkey and gouda. Simple. Good. Kind of like half of Thanksgiving in your mouth.”  
  
“Half of Thanksgiving?”   
  
“The best half.”   
  
“Of course.”   
  
Tink finished chewing and Killian waited for the ensuing critique. It took a few painful seconds – and he had to stop himself from looking at Emma more than once – but the judge finally opened her mouth. “I wouldn’t have thought of deconstructing a potato skin,” she said, with a hint of laughter in her voice. “And I have to be honest, I was a little skeptical when I saw your plate. But the flavor is there. That’s what I care about the most and it’s here. You just kind of have to build it yourself. It’s crazy, but it kind of works.”   
  
“Thanks,” Killian said. Tink nodded, walking back to her mark to announce the first cut chef, and he, finally, looked over at Emma. “Anything to add, Swan?”

“I didn’t eat your food,” she pointed out.

“That’s a very good point.” He reached across the counter, grabbing the half-eaten plate and holding it in front of him as he turned towards Emma. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

“I don’t think that’s the phrase you’re looking for.”  
  
He held the plate up higher, smiling wide at her – God, this wasn’t going according to plan. She was supposed to flirt back or at least play along slightly. She wasn’t supposed to completely call him out for the line it totally was.

Mind games.

“Come on Swan,” Killian said. “Let me try your food.”

She stared at him, lips going thin at the request and Killian understood – it was a personal thing. Cooking had always been as much an expression as it was a job and, for some reason, he got the idea that it was very much the same thing for her. And those walls he could practically see around her weren’t helping much either.

Emma tugged on the bottom of her hair quickly and Killian heard her exhale of air before she grabbed the plate on her station, leaning over towards him and dropping it, without ceremony, on the counter.

“Bon appetit,” she said softly, grabbing Killian’s plate of his hands. They ate quickly, trying to stay off the camera as Tink announced that Graham had been eliminated.

He was right. It was good. Really good. Classically-trained and worked her way up the New York City culinary ladder good.

“Well?” Emma asked and Killian grinned at her. She was totally upfront and he was totally charmed by it.

“It’s delicious, Swan,” he said honestly.

“Yours isn’t so bad either.”  
  
“Another compliment?”   
  
“Another?”   
  
“You said when we were doing the promo stuff that my food, and I quote, ‘smells really good’”

“You remember that?”  
  
Killian stopped at the tone of her voice, the question within the question and the uncertainty that someone could actually remember something she’d said. The walls made a bit more sense now.

“I do listen when you talk, love,” Killian said, glancing up at her to find her staring like she’d never quite seen anything like him.

Emma nodded slowly, only turning around when Archie announced the next challenge. Chicken noodle soup. Killian did his best not to groan – trying to make soup in an hour was a challenge alone, doing it in 30 minutes was close to impossible.

Archie swung open the door the mini-market and the sound of sneakers moving next to him made Killian dash towards the pantry. He skidded to a stop once he’d made it through the doorway, grabbing everything he could get his hands on – chicken broth and chicken and pasta and half a dozen vegetables he was certain he would only use half of.

“Got enough there?” Emma muttered, sliding up next to him in the corner of the room. Killian made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. She blinked a few times, lips twisting in confusion as she grabbed eggs out of the open fridge next to her.

She was gone before he had a chance to come up with some kind of response and Killian barely made it out of the room before Archie closed the door once the countdown was over. He felt like his head was spinning a bit – knocked off course and out of the plan by Emma Swan and her ridiculously good food.

He managed to get out of the first round of auction sabotages unscathed, but he did lose a bit of money. All of three of them had bid on the cookie pan – terrified by the prospect of having to cook their food on the flat surface – and Killian had given up $2,500 to hand the stupid thing off to Belle.

He did feel bad – she was probably the nicest person in the entire studio – but he couldn’t bring himself to put it in front of Emma.

She’d absolutely gotten under his skin.

Killian’s pasta was almost done, his vegetables were cooking and his chicken broth was working on the stove when Archie announced another auction. He only half-listened to the explanation, something about _tied together_ and _getting close to your enemies_ , far too focused on his chicken actually cooking to pay complete attention to the sabotage.

He should have.

“Killian,” Archie called a few moments later, finally drawing his attention away from the stovetop. “You’ve got to come here.”  
  
“What?”   
  
“Were you not listening?”   
  
“I absolutely was not.”   
  
“Killian,” Emma sighed and his eyes snapped to hers automatically. “Be serious for two seconds.”   
  
“I am being serious. I absolutely was not listening.” Archie held up something in his hand that almost looked like rope, but, upon closer inspection, was actually an exercise resistance band. “What is that?” Killian asked.

Emma groaned again. “You really weren’t listening, were you?”  
  
“I’ve got soup to worry about.”   
  
“Well, now you’ve got Emma’s soup to worry about as well,” Archie added, smiling at the two of them. “Stand back to back.”   
  
“What?” Killian stuttered, doing as instructed anyway. He could feel Emma breathing against him, the jut of her shoulder blade pressing into his back when she moved her arm. Archie wrapped the band around them, forcing them to get even closer and Killian tried to keep his breathing level even.

That was easier said than done – especially when Emma’s back seemed to fit against him in a way it _absolutely_ shouldn’t and her arm inadvertently moved against his brace as she tried to reposition her body.

He felt her gasp softly when her skin brushed up against the contraption and Killian hoped they weren’t on camera for this. He squeezed his eyes tight slightly and realized, with the metaphorical weight of the world landing in the pit of his stomach as he did, that it was the first time she’d actually acknowledged his hand. Or lack thereof.

“It’s ok, Swan,” he said softly. Emma’s back stiffened against his and she shook her head – trying to move her hair of her shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to…”  
  
“You didn’t,” Killian promised.

Archie was either ignoring them completely or absolutely oblivious – Killian wasn’t sure which one was better – and he turned his attention back to them, glancing down at the band holding them together. “So you’ve got to deal with this for the rest of the round,” he said, smiling at Emma and Killian’s frustrated faces. “Have fun!”  
  
Emma groaned, hair brushing against Killian’s neck when she leaned her head back dramatically. “You can’t do that with your hair, Swan,” he muttered. “It tickles.”   
  
“Tickles? Are you eight years old?”   
  
“I am honest,” he said, starting to walk back towards his designated stove to check on his chicken. Or at least he tried to.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Emma asked, apparently cemented into the ground for how locked in she was on the spot.

“I am going to check on my food.”  
  
“Like hell you are,” she argued. “I’m going to check on my food.”   
  
“I’m afraid we might be at an impasse, love.”   
  
Emma groaned again and Belle laughed as she walked by, a bowl of perfectly cooked pasta in her hands. “I should say that I’m sorry about this,” she said. “But I’m mostly entertained. You two should probably come up with some kind of plan if you want to get your soup out for judging though.”   
  
She raised her eyebrows quickly, smile bordering on devious as she moved to her station. “At least she’s still got to cook on a cookie sheet,” Killian muttered.

“Who knew she could be so evil,” Emma added.

“Nah, not evil, love. Mind games. She’s playing mind games.”  
  
“Aren’t we all?”   
  
“Maybe.”   
  
Emma sighed again and Killian felt her nod – her hair moving against his neck again. “We need a plan.”   
  
“I’m not disagreeing with you Swan, but I would like to point out that my chicken is about to burn. And I’d really like to avoid that happening.”   
  
“Ok,” Emma said, voice falling into an authoritative tone that made it difficult for Killian to continue being, literally, strapped to her body. “Let’s go fix your chicken and then I can add the vegetables to my soup. Deal?”   
  
“Deal.”

They moved awkwardly around the kitchen, shuffling from Killian’s station towards the stove a few feet away, eyes trained on their feet so they didn’t trip over each other. He tried to speed them up, determined to make sure the chicken didn’t burn and Emma muttered several can’t-be-aired-words under her breath.

“That mouth, Swan,” Killian laughed softly. “You’re someone’s mother.”  
  
“And strangely enough that doesn’t make me any less of an actual human being. One that is currently very frustrated that they agreed to do this stupid show in the first place.”

“I wouldn’t suggest otherwise.”  
  
“What?”   
  
“What do you mean, what?” Killian asked. “Bend your knees, Swan. Chicken’s in the oven and I don’t want you ending up on top of my back.”   
  
He felt her laugh against him, but she did as instructed, moving with him as he opened up the oven door to pull out the, thankfully, not burnt chicken. “How’s it look?” Emma asked, not answering his question.

“Perfect of course.”  
  
“Of course.”   
  
“Back up, love,” he said. They were both standing up straight now and Killian was nervous his heartbeat was louder than every other sound in the kitchen – he was certain he could feel her everywhere and this was hardly _fair_ . He’d already been distracted enough before. Now he was, literally, strapped next to Emma Swan and she was bordering close to _talking_ and Killian couldn’t care less about the food.

“Vegetables now?” Emma asked, but Killian knew it was more a directive than a request.

“Of course,” he said, repeating her words back to him. “Lead on, Swan.”  
  
It was harder to get around to the other side of the kitchen, a mix of short steps and alternating sighs of frustration. It took nearly two minutes to get to Emma’s station and her finely-chopped vegetables sitting on top of a cutting board.

“You didn’t cook your vegetables yet?” Killian asked.

“Shut up.”  
  
“Just a question.”   
  
“Shut up again.” Emma tried move closer to the counter, coming up short when Killian didn’t immediately step with her. “You need to move,” she mumbled. “And then we’re going back to the stove.”

“So many demands,” he laughed. “I feel like we’re doing more for you than we did for me.”  
  
“If you wanted to do more when we were at your stove, you should have asked. I’m reasonable. Come on, walk with me.”   
  
“Is that what you are? Reasonable?”   
  
Emma twisted her head – her hair fell over _his_ shoulder at the movement – trying to look at him and Killian bit his bottom lip, grinning as they moved. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” Emma said softly, tossing the vegetables into the pot on her stove.

“Maybe I would,” Killian answered and it would have been impossible _not_ to feel the way her back straightened at his response. Emma didn’t say anything else, focused on stirring her broth and leaning forward to pull her pot of pasta off the stovetop. She tugged them closer to the sink, straining the pasta and adding that to the broth as well.

Killian did his best to ignore the cameraman in front of them, no doubt focusing in on his face and the, likely, clear frustration there. He _did_ want to know. He wanted to know everything about her and he shouldn’t and he was as much of a mess as he was certain his soup was.

“How’s it going with the two of you?” Archie asked, appearing behind the cameraman. Killian bit back a groan, but Emma wasn’t quite as receptive to the _propriety_ of it all, not even trying to mask her groan.

“We’re dealing,” she said, trying to brush Archie off. But Killian knew better – he was here to hose and bother them and serve as a sabotage as much as the actual sabotages and he wouldn’t go away that easily.

“Ah, Emma, you look a little frustrated. Why’s that?”  
  
“Because there’s a human being strapped to my back?”

Archie laughed, throwing his head back and even Belle joined in. “Worth it,” she said, walking by them towards the stack of dishes in the corner of the room. Killian felt Emma shift against his back and, well, that was absolutely unfair.

“And what about you, Killian?” Archie asked. “How’s it feel to have a human being strapped to your back?”

Killian considered his answer for a moment, trying not to be completely bothered by the solid weight of Emma against him and only slightly troubled by how _comfortable_ it actually was. “It’s not bad,” he said, doing his best to keep the smile on his face look vaguely sarcastic and not at all genuine. “In fact, I find I quite fancy Swan from time time. You know, when she’s not yelling at me about her vegetables.”

“They need to get cooked,” Emma muttered, shaking the pan on the stove. Killian couldn’t quite tell if it was actual cooking or just frustrated energy. He hoped it was the first.

“Swan?” Archie repeated quickly, eyebrows ticking up. Killian sighed, ignoring the question entirely and glancing over his shoulder to get Emma’s attention.

“Come on, Swan,” he mumbled, elbowing her in the side. She elbowed him back. “Your vegetables are fine. We’ve got to plate.”

She nodded, twisting the knob on the front of the stove to keep the soup simmering. “I’m going right foot first, ok?” Emma said softly, voice seemingly drifting away from as she stared towards the back corner of the kitchen. “Can you walk backwards?”  
  
“I’ve only got one hand, love, but I’ve got two feet, I can walk backwards.”   
  
She stiffened against him, shoulders pressing into his back and the tension was obvious – even without looking at her. “That’s...that’s not what I meant at all.”   
  
Killian reached his right hand behind him, thumb dragging against Emma’s wrist again and he didn’t care about Archie staring at them or the several dozen cameras recording them or what this would look like when it aired. He’d somehow stumbled over his own feet – before they’d even started walking backwards – and Killian had landed right in front of Emma Swan with his heart in the one hand he had.

“I know what you meant, love, it’s fine, trust me.” She exhaled against him, hair brushing over the back of his neck and threatening to fall underneath the collar of his shirt. “Come on, your right foot first.”

“Ok,” she said softly.

They made their way towards the corner quickly, neither one of them tripping over their feet as they moved and Killian felt Emma’s arm move towards the pile of dishes in front of her. “What kind of bowls do you want?” she asked, taking him by surprise.

He should have expected it. She never quite did what he thought she would.

“What?” Killian asked, twisting his neck to try and see behind him. It didn’t work. And now his neck hurt.

“Bowls,” Emma repeated. “To put your second-place soup in.”  
  
“Excuse me? Second-place soup?”   
  
“You heard me.”   
  
“I’ll have you know, Swan, that this soup is almost award-winning.”   
  
“Yeah, it’s the almost that makes it sound like second-place.”   
  
“Awfully confident for someone strapped to my back.”   
  
“Belle had to cook soup on a cookie sheet,” Emma pointed out, holding two bowls over her shoulder. “Somehow I think, despite being strapped to your back, my first-place soup is going to be just a little bit better. I mean, how much soup can you really make on a cookie sheet?”   
  
“Ah, but it’s about flavor, love. You could have two spoonfuls of soup and if it won’t matter if it tastes good.”   
  
She twisted slightly, pulling him around behind her and making him almost fall over. “Everything I make tastes good,” Emma promised and Killian would have given the rest of the money he had left in this stupid competition to see the look on her face.

“You, uh, you ready to plate?” he stuttered as they stopped awkwardly in between their two stations.

“Sure.”

They worked in silence moving between the two countertops, finding a way to twist and turn and ladle soup into bowls. She’d picked out blue ones for him. Killian tried not to read too much into that. Archie yelled time on the round and Killian and Emma each took a step back, hands up away from the food.

“Well done, love,” Killian muttered, rolling one shoulder back. He felt her laugh against him and he couldn’t stop himself from smiling at the sound.

“Yeah, you too. It, uh, wasn’t quite as bad as I thought it would be.”  
  
“Seems we make a pretty good team, Swan.”   
  
She laughed again as a crew tech came up to untie them. Emma took a step away from him and he heard her deep breath before he even turned around. He could still feel her against him and Killian squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force the memory out of his brain. The food. He needed to focus on the food.

And not on the way he was fairly positive his shirt would smell like her for the rest of the day.

Killian barely heard Tink’s comments as she judged the three of them, eyes darting to Emma throughout the post-round taste-test. She kept her eyes focused on the bowl in front of her, hand occasionally darting up to her ear to push up that one strand of hair that kept falling out of her ponytail.

He didn’t even realize that they’d both made it to the final round until he heard Regina’s heels coming up next to him and his name hissed in his ear several times. “What?” he snapped quickly, eyes wide when he met his producer’s glare.

“We’re taking five,” she said and it was, clearly, not the first time she’d told him this. “Go get something to drink. And wipe that stupid smile off your face. And stop flirting with Emma Swan. Actually, no, keep flirting with Emma Swan. It makes for good TV.”

Regina walked away before Killian could come up with something to say and left him standing at his station wide-mouthed with a half-eaten bowl of soup in front of him. He shook his head, running his hand through his hair and turned towards the catering station, wondering if it would be bad form to just start eating his own food instead.

And then he almost ran into someone.

“Jeez,” she laughed, stepping back quickly to avoid having the two cups she was holding from spilling all over her. “And here I thought I was being nice.”  
  
“What are you doing, Swan?”   
  
“Offering you a drink.” She held up the glass in her left hand as proof and the small, nervous smile on her face did something it absolutely shouldn’t in this studio kitchen. “It’s not rum to pour over open wounds, but it at least has some caffeine in it.”

Killian laughed softly, returning her smile with one of his own and wrapping his hands around the coffee cup. He took a sip of it and lowered his eyebrows instinctively. “Something wrong?” Emma asked.

“Is there cinnamon in this?” he asked, dragging his thumb over the side of his lip.

“Oh, jeez, sorry, that’s mine.” She reached forward, switching cups with his.

“And chocolate too?”  
  
“It’s a hot chocolate, coffee, cinnamon mix,” Emma muttered softly and Killian ignored the way his pulse picked when her fingers brushed over his.  
  
“Um, it’s my brother’s concoction. Got me through culinary school.”   
  
“It certainly does have quite a kick.”   
  
“All about the flavor, right?”

“And the caffeine.”  
  
“Of course.” Emma bit her lip and Killian lowered his eyebrows, nerves hitting him quickly. “You alright, love?”   
  
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”   
  
“Then what’s the matter?”   
  
“How do you know something is the matter?”   
  
“Open book, remember?” Emma nodded quickly and tugged on her hair again before dropping her hand like she’d been shocked by the ends of the strands. “You going to tell me what’s going on, now?” Killian asked.

“I, uh, what are you doing later?” she asked, rushing over the words like she was determined to get them out before she stopped herself. Killian stared at her – taken by surprise, again. She was asking him out.

That’s what was happening, wasn’t it?  
  
He wasn’t entirely sure.

They still had to cook another round of food.

“Sorry, sorry,” Emma muttered, taking a step back and pulling her hair out of the ponytail. It fell over her shoulders and Killian blinked a few times, trying to figure out why he couldn’t come up with a single thing to say. “I shouldn’t have asked. I just, well, Henry, you know, my kid, he, uh, wanted to go to Granny’s later and Ruby’s probably going to come to and my brother and sister-in-law will be there too and I just thought...maybe if you weren’t busy.”  
  
His mouth was hanging open and he couldn’t quite breathe and Emma looked so disappointed Killian was positive he could hear his pulse beating in his ears at the sight of her. “Granny’s?” he asked, finally finding something to say.

Emma let out a shaky laugh and bit her lip tightly. “It’s Ruby’s grandmother. She’s sort of adopted us. Henry’s obsessed with her grilled cheese.”  
  
“I do love grilled cheese,” Killian said, taking a step back into Emma’s space and reaching out to wrap his fingers around her wrist. She didn’t move. He took that as a victory.

“But?”  
  
“But I have a dinner service to get to,” Killian sighed. “As soon as I walk off this set. And a sous chef who knows I’ve been rewriting the menu in my head for the better part of the last week.”   
  
Emma smiled – and it almost took away some of the disappointment on her face and, God, she was _gorgeous_. This wasn’t fair.

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” she said quickly, taking a sip of her returned hot chocolate-coffee combination. “I just...I don’t know what I thought actually. I don’t normally do something like that.”  
  
“Why did you?”   
  
Emma shrugged. “Curiosity?”   
  
Killian pressed his mouth together, lower lip sticking out slightly. She was curious. And he was fascinated. “What about after?” he asked suddenly.

“After what?”  
  
“After your dinner.”   
  
“I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”   
  
“What are you doing after your dinner?”   
  
She reached her hand up quickly – probably trying to brush her hair off her shoulders – but then thought better of it, hand ghosting over a chain around her neck. “Are you asking me out?”

“Maybe.”  
  
“What did you have in mind?”   
  
“Well, you did mention you live, what was it? Three blocks away from my restaurant?” Emma nodded. “Maybe when you’re done with your family dinner and everything you could come by? You know, I used to be the bartender at The Jolly. I make a pretty mean drink.”   
  
“A drink? As in all of them?”   
  
“I’m a hell of a bartender.”   
  
“Is there anything you aren’t particularly confident in?”   
  
“If there is, I haven’t found it yet.”   
  
Emma stared at him, smile tugging on one end of her mouth and Killian held his ground. He didn’t admit that _she_ might have been the one thing he wasn’t particularly confident in.

“I’d like that,” Emma said softly, ducking her eyes to stare at her feet.

“Yeah?”

Her eyes snapped up and he got the distinct impression that she realized he wasn’t particularly confident in this – in _her_. She smiled softly and stepped forward and her hand was on his left arm and nodded. “Yeah,” she repeated.

“We close at ten.”  
  
“I’ll be there at 9:55.”

“Time to cook,” Regina said, materializing, apparently, out of thin air. She clapped Killian’s shoulder and nodded back towards the kitchen. He widened his eyes meaningfully – trying to get her to _go away_ , but Regina had never been particularly good at subtle.

“We’ll be right there,” he muttered, but Emma was already two steps away, spooked by his producer and retreating back behind those walls he’d thought he, finally, had managed to peer over. She was pulling her hair back up when he looked at her and the nervous smile had returned to her face as she walked back towards her station.

“I hate you,” Killian hissed at Regina, still standing next to him, one pointed heel tapping impatiently.

“You do not. And, as you so kindly pointed out before, Rol would be crushed if you cut things off with me. So, deal with it Jones, you’re stuck with me.”

“You guys going to come by later?”  
  
“Is it a day ending in ‘y’?” Regina asked. Killian nodded. “Then we’ll be by later. Rol had something he wanted to show you anyway, something about a science fair project he and Robin have been working on.”   
  
Killian’s mouth ticked up immediately and he shook his head, wondering how he’d managed to become the hero of a six-year-old. And what he was going to do when Emma Swan walked into his restaurant later that night.

He hoped she’d walk into his restaurant later that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back to sticking to that update schedule! This one is another long one (mostly because I couldn't figure out where to split it) and we'll be back to our regularly scheduled 5K an update on Friday. Probably. What even is word count? As always, @laurnorder is the word-reading hero I don't deserve and THANK YOU for ever click, comment and kudos. 
> 
> Flail with me on Tumblr during WEDDING WEEK, OH GOD: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	7. Chapter 7

She’d lost her mind. 

She was absolutely convinced. 

She’d gone crazy or had some kind of actual mental breakdown or maybe stumbled into some weird, alternate universe where she asked out Killian Jones in between takes. 

Emma couldn’t remember the last time she’d asked anyone out – probably never. In fact, she was fairly  _ positive _ it was never. Not even Neal. He’d always been in control, always been the one to spark the conversation or figure out the plan. 

Of course, the plan ultimately led her to jail and teenage pregnancy and a whole slew of unresolved emotional issues, but that was beside the point. 

The point was she’d asked Killian Jones out and now she was supposed to show up at his restaurant, three blocks away from her apartment, at 9:55 and...do what exactly? Drink? Talk? Bond?

She wasn’t very good at any of those things. 

And, God, what was she going to tell Henry? Or David? He’d probably want to walk her to the restaurant, stupid overprotective idiot. 

Emma pushed her hair back behind her ears – that one piece kept falling out of her ponytail – and she could feel Killian’s eyes on her and she did her best to keep her eyes trained on her hands. Archie came back onto the set, smile on his face and announced that they needed to make crepes. 

Crepes. 

Emma glanced at Killian, smiling before she could stop herself. “Sounds pretty French, doesn’t it?” she asked. He rolled his eyes. Jeez, she shouldn’t have asked him out. He was too good looking – and he knew it. He was still playing mind games. 

“I’m just worried you’re going to try and get too fancy and I’ll be able to waltz out of this kitchen with a case-full of money. I don’t want you to be too disappointed, Swan.”  
  
“Trust me, I won’t be.”  
  
He grinned at her and she was fairly positive he winked as he jogged towards the mini-market, jostling her slightly as he pushed his way through the door past her. “You even know how to make crepes?” she asked, brushing by him to grab what she needed – flour, milk, eggs, butter, powdered sugar and half a dozen different fruit options. “It’s not exactly bar food.”  
  
“I don’t serve bar food,” he countered. “I serve fantastic food.”

“So confident.”   
“Almost always.”   
  
“Five, four, three, two, one,” Archie counted down and Emma ignored the feel of Killian’s hand on her back as he all but pushed her out of the door. It was more forceful than it had been when she’d been tied to him and Emma couldn’t shake the feeling – the closest she’d been to an actual guy,  _ man _ ,  since she couldn’t begin to remember. 

Her shirt was probably going to smell like him for the rest of the day. Maybe she’d have time to change between Granny’s and going to his restaurant. Before their date. She just needed to get out of this round first. 

They started cooking immediately, Emma heating up the pan and tossing a pad of butter in before turning to grab a bowl off the bottom of her station to start mixing her batter. She was halfway through stirring, only pausing to flick that stupid piece of hair back away from her forehead when she heard Archie announce the first sabotage. 

And this one was absurd. 

She was only half paying attention, but she heard something about a Lazy Susan and having to walk in circles while they cooked. She bid $4,000 and won – leaving her with just $17,000, but the look on Killian’s face when he walked up to the contraption was worth it. 

“This is just wrong, Swan,” he laughed, staring at the thing. It was already moving and, for good measure, it would turn the other way without warning. He groaned loudly, running his hand through his hair and leaning back dramatically. 

“I’m just playing the game,” Emma shot back, smiling as she held the bowl against her hip to stir it. “And winning!”  
  
“Yeah, we’ll see about that.”

It absolutely _ was _ wrong, she thought a few moments later, crepes browning on the stove and Killian nearly tripping over his feet as he tried to keep up with his constantly-moving food. He groaned again when the thing started rotating the opposite way. “You doing ok over there?” she shouted, flipping the crepe in the pan without even looking at it. 

“Fine,” he bit out. 

“Yeah, looks like it.”  
  
“Cook your food, love. No need to worry about mine.”  
  
“Uh oh, trouble in paradise?” Archie asked and Emma knew he was playing to the soon-to-be-watching crowd and doing his job, but she couldn’t help the way her stomach dropped at the question. 

Someday she’d be confident again. Someday she’d believe that everyone wouldn’t walk away and someday she wouldn’t let hosts of one-hour cooking shows get under her skin because she was trying to take  _ control  _ of her life or something. 

“It’s fine,” Killian said, answering Archie’s question without missing a beat and shooting Emma a supportive smile. That wasn’t fair either. He wasn’t supposed to be supportive. They were competing against each other for Christ’s sake and, apparently, going on a date later. 

If she showed up. 

She should show up. 

The minutes ticked by and Emma had, somehow, avoided any sabotages – unless she was counting the slightly nervous, maddeningly encouraging smiles Killian Jones kept tossing her direction while they moved around each other in the kitchen. 

That seemed a bit like a sabotage. She couldn’t think when he did that. 

Archie called  _ time _ on the round and Emma and Killian both took a step back from their stations, hands in the air and respective shoulders heaving dramatically as they each tried to take a deep breath. Her pulse was racing and her heart was beating faster than normal and Emma had no idea if it was from the adrenaline or the guy standing a few feet to her right. 

It might have been both. 

It was probably both. 

“You’re big on the traditional, aren’t you?” Killian asked, peering at Emma’s food – two perfectly cooked crepes covered in strawberries and sugar. 

She shrugged. “Not all of us like sweet potatoes,” Emma said simply. 

Killian didn’t say anything else, but the smile on his face spoke volumes and Emma wondered if, in addition to a date later that night, she hadn’t stumbled into someone who knew  _ exactly _ where she was coming from. 

“You guys ready to be judged?” Archie asked, quickly joined by Tink who was walking back down the stairs and grinning at Killian. Emma ignored that. 

She didn’t get jealous. Ever. And certainly not over some guy she knew for a few weeks who’d spent a good chunk of his afternoon tied to her back. 

Shit. 

Neither one of them had answered Archie’s question and his eyes shot back and forth between Emma and Killian, trying to fill the dead air. Tink coughed pointedly and Killian scuffed his foot on the ground, hand finding its way to the back of his neck and the bottom of his hair. 

“Yeah, let’s do this,” he said softly, grabbing one of his plates and walking towards the front table. Emma followed suit, putting her own food down in front of her. 

“You first, Emma,” Archie said. “Tell us your crepe tale.”  
  
She nodded, lacing her fingers together behind her back and rocking onto her heels. “It’s a traditional crepe, one of the first recipes I ever learned actually. So you’ve got the pastry base and then a strawberry compote on top and, of course, powdered sugar. It’s not a crepe if you don’t have any powdered sugar.”

Killian laughed under his breath, eyes falling on his food – which was noticeably lacking any powdered sugar. 

Tink cut into the crepe quickly, pushing the pastry into the strawberries, humming slightly to herself as she chewed. “This is really good,” she mumbled and Killian laughed again. “Like absurdly good. Where did you learn this recipe?”  
  
“Oh,” Emma said quickly. “Just trial and error when I first started cooking.”  
  
“You came up with this?”  
  
Emma nodded, uncomfortable with the metaphorical and literal spotlight that had suddenly descended on her. Killian bumped her arm with hers – and she hoped it didn’t show up on the camera. 

“Alright,” Archie said, redirecting Tink’s attention and stopping her from taking another bite of the crepe. “Killian, tell us about your dish.”   
  
“Ah, well, it’s not quite as  _ traditional _ as Swan’s, but it’s got a ton of chocolate in it, which is always a good thing,” he said, one side of his mouth pulling up as he spoke. “You’ve got a chocolate crepe, cherry compote and a chocolate sauce drizzled on top for good measure.”

Tink nodded enthusiastically, cutting into the food with the side of her fork. She made a face when she started to chew and Emma’s stomach felt like it had fallen onto the floor. “Well, you’re not lying, it certainly was full of chocolate.”  
  
“And?”

“And it’s a lot of chocolate.”   
  
Killian nodded slowly and Emma tried not to look at him. She heard him take a deep breath though and her eyes moved over to him, all slumped shoulder and hand wrapped around his neck and a  _ distinct _ lack of confidence in the air around him. 

“It’s up to you know, Tink,” Archie said, ignoring whatever was happening between her and Killian. “We’ve got two chefs in front of us, two of the biggest stars on this network and only one of them can walk away today with the win and the money for their charity. So, who’s it going to be?”

Tink took a deep breath, glancing between the two of them and Emma couldn’t stop staring at Killian. He turned his head quickly, shooting her that same, encouraging smile. 

And, suddenly, she knew what she was going to do later – she was going to go on a date. 

Emma didn’t even hear Tink’s decision, too preoccupied with smiles and blue eyes and possible similarities that she was determined to figure out. 

“Congratulations, Swan,” Killian muttered in her ear, hand falling on her shoulder and turning her around quickly. 

“What?”  
  
“You won, love,” he said softly, pulling her closer to him and wrapping his arm around her shoulders. It wasn’t any closer than they’d been when they’d been strapped next to each other, but, somehow, standing face-to-face, with her head tucked into the crook of his shoulder and his fingers nearly moving against her hair, Emma couldn’t quite remember how to breathe. 

“Really?” she asked, pulling her head back slightly to meet his gaze head on. 

He nodded, the smile on his face probably able to stop traffic in the middle of Times Square. “Really.”  
  
“Congratulations, Emma,” Archie said, making her jump slightly and Killian’s arm dropped away from her shoulder. “That means you’ve got $17,000 to give to the New York City Police Foundation and, Killian, you’ve got a very chocolate crepe.”  
  
She nodded silently, trying to smile at the camera and forget the way Killian Jones felt against her. They shot a few moments of her holding the money up in victory and she could feel him watching her, just out of frame. 

He was holding a plate in his hand when she walked back to him, sitting on the edge of the table where their food had been – he was eating her crepe.

“What are you doing?” Emma asked. “Shouldn’t you be doing talking heads? You know swept away to keep to some sort of schedule?”  
  
“If I have to stand in front of a camera for another minute I am liable to go crazy. Gina understands that.”  
  
“Gina?” Emma repeated, voice colored with surprise as she sat down next to him. She picked up the other plate on the table, holding it loosely in her hand and pushing the fork into it again, the same way Tink had just a few minutes before.

Killian shrugs. “Rol calls her that. And Robin when he wants something. It sticks sometimes.”

“I’m afraid you’ve lost me,” Emma admitted. 

“Robin and Regina are engaged. Wedding’s in a few months actually. Roland is Robin’s son from his first marriage, wife died unexpectedly and tragically and now they’re one big, happy family that essentially lives in my restaurant.”

“Will they be there later?”  
  
“Probably.”  
  
“Huh.”  
  
“What’s the matter?”  
  
“I just don’t know that I’m good at talking to people from the network outside of the network.”  
  
“You’re talking to me,” Killian pointed out. “And presumably will be later. Unless you’re just trying to use me for my fantastic drink-making skills.”

Emma laughed, finally taking a bite of the crepe. It was delicious. She didn’t say anything for a few minutes, suddenly too preoccupied with the amount of chocolate she was trying to consume as quickly as possible. “You still with me, Swan?”  
  
“This is incredible,” she said.

“What?”  
  
“This,” Emma said, picking up the fork to point at the half-eaten crepe on her plate. “Like ten times better than mine.”  
  
“I don’t think that’s true, love. You’re the one with the win and the money. And I’d say the fact that I’ve already eaten all of yours proves my point just a bit.”  
  
Emma glanced down at his hand and the empty plate it was holding. “You liked it?” she asked, voice getting softer without her even trying. 

“I did,” Killian answered and it sounded like a much bigger sentence than two words and four letters.

“Emma!” Ruby called from the other side of the kitchen, nodding towards the door behind her. “Your move in the studio.”  
  
“This is your fault, you know,” Emma muttered, nudging her shoulder with Killian’s.

“What is?”  
  
“If you weren’t such an on-camera drama queen, I’d get to go last and I could finish eating before I had to analyze whatever we just filmed.”  
  
“Take it with you.”  
  
“Hmmm?”  
  
“Take it with you,” Kilian repeated. “You’re half done anyway. You’ll finish by the time you walk down the hallway.”  
  
“What exactly are you suggesting?”  
  
“That you like my food.” He looked up at her as Emma pushed herself off the table, sneakers squeaking against the linoleum floor, and the smile on his face was so genuine she nearly dropped the plate in her hand. She would have been disappointed if she did – the food was delicious. 

“So confident,” she muttered. 

He scoffed under his breath, reaching behind him to put the plate back on the table, and did something absurd with his eyebrows as Emma turned towards her rather impatient producer. “Go film your analysis, Swan,” he said softly. “I’ll see you later?”

She turned back at the question, ignoring Ruby’s very loud groan and rested her hand on his knee when she answered. He didn’t flinch, didn’t move an inch, possibly stopped breathing – just stared at her with wide eyes that were so blue Emma probably could have drowned in them. Or something ridiculously sentimental. 

“You will,” she promised, ignoring the way her heart stuttered over the words. “9:55, right?”  
  
Killian nodded. “I’ll make sure everyone else is gone by then.”

“Good,” Emma mumbled. “And, for the record, I’m not using you for your drink-making skills. It’s just a perk.”   
She walked away before he could say anything else, not meeting Ruby’s slightly stunned expression in front of the door as she walked into the hallway, sitting down in the studio with the plate of Killian’s food still in her hand.

She filmed her talking head while she was eating. 

Ruby sighed dramatically when she tried to pull the plate out of Emma’s hand, tugging on the vice-like grip she had on the thing and only gave up when she was on the receiving end of a patented Emma Swan glare. 

“Fine,” Ruby muttered, throwing her hands up in the air as she walked out of the frame. “Eat on TV. I don’t care. I hope you get chocolate all over your face.”   
“It’s really good, Rubes,” Emma muttered, taking another bite and rubbing self consciously at her mouth. She didn’t want to do this with chocolate on her face. 

“And I really don’t care. Talk, Em and then we can go to dinner.”

Emma nodded, staring at the camera and waiting for the prompt questions to begin. She answered all of them as honestly as she could, only stumbling slightly when she had to explain her charity choice. She brushed it off, something about friends on the force and the good work the department did and Emma wasn’t entirely certain it made much sense, but she’d gotten through it without giving up too information and that was all she really cared about. 

“You going to tell me what’s going on with you now?” Ruby asked nearly an hour later as they walked down the block towards Granny’s. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t.”  
  
“And what is that supposed to mean?”  
  
“It means you spent your entire post-show interview eating Killian Jones’ food and you didn’t look particularly that upset about the prospect of being tied up against him this afternoon. I’d even go so far as to suggest you might have actually enjoyed it.”  
  
“We won, didn’t we?” Emma asked and Ruby nodded. “Then what’s the big deal?”  
  
“There is no big deal. I knew you’d win before we even started filming, but I didn’t realize you’d also be spending the majority of filming making eyes at some Iron Chef.”  
  
“I don’t make eyes!” Emma cried, stopping short of Granny’s door. Ruby crossed her arms and stared at Emma, a disbelieving smile on her face. 

“Please, you both did. All afternoon.”  
  
“I thought you were the one who was trying to get me to be more open to opportunities and life outside my apartment.”  
  
“I am,” Ruby promised. “But I’m also your friend and I worry about you out of instinct. I don’t want you to miss out on a chance to get your timeslot back because you’re doing _whatever_ with Killian Jones.”  
  
“I am not doing _whatever_ ,” Emma argued. “I won, Rubes. $17,000 is a solid head start on the rest of them. David’s going to lose his mind when I tell him.”  
  
“I mean, I get it,” Ruby continued, ignoring Emma’s points completely. “He’s ridiculously good looking. But there’s a lot of rumors about him at the network and across the culinary circle in the city. He gets around.”  
  
“What? Are you kidding me?” Emma scoffed. “He gets around? What is this twelfth grade?”  
  
Ruby sighed. “I’m just looking out.”  
  
“I know you are, but I’m a grown up girl with a 12-year-old son,” Emma said. “You don’t have to.”

“Just promise me one thing, ok?” 

“What?”  
  
“Don’t lose your mind, ok? He’s charming and he’s got this bad-boy, restaurant owner thing  _ totally _ going for him, but you saw the way Tink was around him this afternoon. He uses all of that to his advantage too. I don’t want to see you getting hurt.”  
  
Emma considered that for a moment – mind drifting back to the way she’d felt when Tink grinned at him, the stab of jealousy she’d felt and refused to acknowledge. Maybe she shouldn’t go later. Maybe she should take Henry home and check his homework and then go to bed. She had a rare afternoon off the next day, before filming this week’s episode of The Kitchen and a few extra hours of sleep wouldn’t hurt. 

But then she remembered the way he looked when she walked out of the studio with his food and that  _ stupid _ encouraging smile that had been plastered on his face for the majority of the day and Emma was so damn intrigued and interested and charmed by it all. 

She’d absolutely lost her mind. 

She also didn’t tell Ruby any of that. 

“Come on,” she said, tugging on the sleeve of Ruby’s dress and pulling her closer towards the door. “I bet Henry’s starving.”  
  
“I bet Granny’s already given him onion rings.”

Ruby was right. Henry was halfway through a plate of onion rings in the corner booth that had somehow become theirs over the last few years, sitting next to Mary Margaret who had a stack of papers in front of her. David was on the other side of the booth, thumb moving down his phone as he, undoubtedly, scrolled through Twitter for the latest Yankees score. 

“Mom!” Henry yelled as soon as he heard her footsteps. She grinned immediately, sliding in next to him and wrapping her arm around his shoulders. He let that happen for all of three seconds before he was pushing off her, mumbling something that Emma was certain sounded almost-teenager’ish.   


“How’d it go?” he asked. 

“Ruby didn’t tell you?” Emma glanced at her producer who was dragging a chair from one of the other tables to sit down at the front of the group.

She shrugged. “Didn’t want to steal your thunder.”  
  
“I won,” Emma said. 

Henry jumped, shaking the table and pushing the side of it straight into David’s stomach. “Jeez, kid,” he muttered. “Relax.”  
  
“But mom won!”  
  
“And now I have no spleen.”  
  
“You don’t really need a spleen,” Emma pointed out, tugging her kid back to her side and, this time, he didn’t even try to stop her. 

“That is true,” Mary Margaret agreed, looking up from the paper in her hand to grin at her husband. “You don’t need your spleen.”  
  
“I thought it was your appendix,” David said. 

“That too.”  
  
“Guys,” Emma cut in. “Could we focus for a second? On me? And the $17,000 I just won?”  
  
“$17,000?” Henry repeated, practically screaming loudly in the half-full diner. 

“Calm down kid,” Emma said softly, tightening her grip on his shoulders. “The episode won’t air until later this week. So we’ve got to keep this under wraps, ok? Otherwise Ruby will probably kill us.”  
  
“I won’t kill you,” Ruby promise. “Just maim you, maybe.”  
  
“Painting a real lovely picture,” Emma hissed. Ruby shrugged. 

“That’s really great, Em,” David said, reaching out to squeeze her hand. “The Foundation will probably put a statue up in your honor or something.”

Emma brushed him off quickly, stealing one of Henry’s onion rings off his plate. He made a noise and Emma just ran her free hand through his hair. “Stop,” she sighed at her brother. “I made three things. It wasn’t that bad.”  
  
“What were your sabotages?  Were they bad? Did you have to do anything ridiculous?”  
  
“I bought a few,” Emma said evasively, not entirely certain how to tell her 12-year-old that she’d spent 30 minutes tied up against another guy. “And I dealt with a couple, but they weren’t all that bad.”  
  
Ruby did her best to turn her laugh into a cough, but she wasn’t fooling anyone and Emma shot her a glare. Granny, thankfully, came over at the same time to take their order and Emma was granted a quick reprieve from romantic suggestions from her producer and a string of questions from the kid still plastered to her side. 

“How was school?” Emma asked when Granny moved back to the kitchen, glancing at both Henry and Mary Margaret. Henry shrugged, but Mary Margaret smiled enthusiastically launching into a detailed description of her latest round of third-grade hijinks and entertainments. 

“I confiscated my first-ever note today,” she said and Emma felt her interest pick up. 

“Oh yeah, what’d it say?”  
  
“It was from Bobby Hull. Asking Liza Jennings if she wanted to be his girlfriend. It had boxes and everything.”  
  
“Kids still do that?”  
  
“Apparently.”  
  
“So what did you do?”  
  
“Well, for a second I actually considered reading it out loud, but that seemed like some bad afterschool special and also kind of mean, so I just put the note on Liza’s desk and got back to teaching. They were talking after class. I think she checked the ‘yes’ box.”  
  
“You are a hopeless romantic, you know that?” Emma laughed, nodding appreciatively towards Granny as she put the grilled cheese down in front of her. 

“It’s the pregnancy hormones.”   
  
“How long you think you’ll be able to use that as an excuse?”    
  
“Probably at least through childbirth.”    
  
Emma grinned at her and, once again, appreciated Mary Margaret’s incredible ability to deal with the  _ situation _ – if that was even the right word for it. Not once had she asked Emma for tips. Not once had she wanted to know what Emma had gone through while she was pregnant or how she dealt with hormones. 

Because Emma had spent the majority of her pregnancy in jail, certain she was going to give Henry up. It wasn’t exactly something she liked to remember. 

And Mary Margaret understood that. 

The woman was a saint. A romance-obsessed saint. 

They ate like they always did, teasing Henry about his onion ring consumption and questioning David on the latest gossip in the precinct – rumor had it they were going to open up the officer’s exam again soon and Emma knew it was something he was interested in. Mary Margaret didn’t say anything about that. 

She was nervous. 

They talked about what Emma was planning on cooking on the next episode of The Kitchen and Ruby told them the promotional art for the all-star competition was slated to start rolling out later that week, meaning Emma’s face was going to be plastered on buses and Subway stop across the city. 

And then they were done and the check was in Granny’s hands and it was 9:00 and Emma couldn’t quite figure out what to do next. They were walking back towards the downtown ‘1’ train when Mary Margaret caught up to her, a concerned look on her face and a million questions practically falling out of her mouth already. 

“I need to talk to you,” Emma said before Mary Margaret could ask her anything.

“Yeah?”  
  
Emma nodded quickly. “I need you to take Henry for the night. Maybe.”  
  
“Maybe?”  
  
“Please stop repeating me, M’s. It’s making me nervous.”

Mary Margaret stared at her – she wasn’t even walking anymore – and Emma tried to smile in response. She rarely called her that anymore, the ancient nickname a signal of just how much she had already lost her mind. 

“When’s the last time you called me that?” Mary Margaret asked. 

“I have no idea.”   
  
“Makes this seem important.”    
  
“It is. Or it might be. Maybe.”    
  
“What’s going on?”    
  
“I think I have a date.”    
  
“You think?”    
  
Emma rolled her eyes and Mary Margaret muttered an apology at repeating her again. “I mean, I do. I, um, I told Killian Jones I’d meet him at his restaurant after he’d closed. For a drink. I invited him to dinner, but, you know, he had to cook, so we landed on this.”    
  
“Wait, wait, wait,” Mary Margaret said. “You invited him to dinner? With us? At Granny’s?”    
  
“Yes, yes and yes,” Emma said impatiently. This was the part she was dreading. The explanation. Because she didn’t have one. She didn’t know why she’d asked him, why she was, suddenly, willing to mix different parts of her life and different roles and let  _ him _ into her actual world when she’d spent her entire career fighting for the exact opposite. 

“Emma,” Mary Margaret said slowly, eyes going wide. “That’s a really big deal.”  
  
“No it’s not.”  
  
Mary Margaret stared at her expectantly and Emma felt her shoulders sag. It was a big deal. The biggest deal. And she couldn’t figure out why he’d gotten under her skin or how he’d managed to do it so quickly. 

But she could still feel the way her body fit against his and the feel of his arm wrapped around her shoulders and the way he smiled at her when he told her she’d won. And she wanted that again. More than she’d wanted anything in recent memory. 

Except maybe her timeslot. 

She wanted her timeslot back. 

And Killian Jones. 

And right now, the only thing she could actually  _ get _ was Killian Jones. 

“We’re just going to talk,” Emma said quickly, trying to come up with some sort of explanation. “And apparently he used to be the bartender at his restaurant and, well, I don’t know, I’m interested.”  
  
“You’re interested? In him?”  
  
Emma nodded. “Probably a lot more than I should be.”  
  
“What did Ruby say?” Emma pressed her lips together and Mary Margaret’s mouth dropped open. “You didn’t tell her?”  
  
“What was I going to say, M’s? Hey, I know I’m supposed to be focused entirely on the competition and my show, but I asked one of the other chefs out to dinner and he couldn’t come so, instead, I’m going to go to his restaurant by myself?”  
  
“Probably just that.”  
  
“It’s just a drink.”  
  
“You called it a date.”  
  
She had. Emma sighed and rolled her head back and forth, tugging on her hair. “Can you take Henry or no?”  
  
“Of course I can. But you need to come up with some sort of story for David.”  
  
“Just...I don’t know. Tell him that I want some extra sleep tomorrow morning because it’s my one day off for the foreseeable future. I mean that almost makes sense, right?”  
  
“It does,” Mary Margaret nodded. 

“Then let’s go with that.”  
  
“Ok. This is a good thing, you know.”  
  
“You think?”  
  
“Emma,” Mary Margaret said pointedly, falling into _older sister_ with ease. “You haven’t asked a guy out since, I don’t even know when. And no one deserves to be happy more than you do. I’m Team Emma always, you know that, so, yes, I think this is a good thing.”  
  
“It’s just one date, M’s.”  
  
“It has to start somewhere.”  
  
Emma took a deep breath and nodded slowly. Mary Margaret tugged on the bottom of her jacket, pulling her back down the sidewalk to a vocally impatient Henry and David.

“We’re coming!” Emma shouted, running her fingers through her son’s hair quickly. “Hey,” she said, glancing down at him. “You mind staying with M’s and David tonight? I’m dead on my feet and I’d love to sleep sometime past seven tomorrow.”  
  
Henry blinked at her and Emma knew she wasn’t fooling anyone. She could feel David staring at her and she tried to shift some of the tension out of her shoulders. “Sure thing, mom,” Henry said after a few moments. “That cool with you Uncle David?”  
  
“Yeah, of course,” he said, clapping him on the shoulder. “You ok, Em?” 

“Of course,” she lied and David’s eyebrows ticked up. “Just, you know, tired.”

He nodded at her, and the smile on his face practically screamed that he didn’t believe her, but Emma didn’t care. 

She had to start somewhere. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guuuuuys. You are all the absolute best. I am overwhelmed and flailing around in comments and general nice-ness. Thank you so, so much! A little shorter this time around, but hopefully still some banter. 
> 
> As always, @laurnorder is a LIGHT of word-reading and beta-ness and just excellent. Thank you again for every click, comment and kudos.


	8. Chapter 8

“You need to get out of here.”  
  
Regina looked up from the drink in her hand and Robin lowered his eyebrows. “What?” he asked. 

“You heard me,” Killian said, running a towel over the bar in front of him. “You need to get out of here. Strictly speaking you should have left when your kid fell asleep, but far be it from me to tell you how to parent.”

He glanced over their shoulders at the six-year-old curled up in one of the booths on the other side of the restaurant and did his best not to smile at the sight. He failed. Miserably. 

As expected, Regina, Robin and Roland had walked into the restaurant a half an hour after he’d gotten there – finally forced into the talking head once he’d pulled himself together after his whirlwind conversation with Emma. 

He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, trying to re-calm his nerves and wondered, not for the first time, when exactly he’d lost complete control of the situation. He didn’t get nervous – not for anything and certainly not for  _ her _ . Except there he was, wiping down his bar like he was still trying to work his way up some metaphorical ladder and doing his best to ignore the all-too-knowing gazes of his friends in front of him. 

“He’s had an exhausting day,” Robin said, nodding towards his son. “Science fairs are big deals.”  
  
“Of course,” Killian muttered, picking up Regina’s momentarily discarded glass to wipe underneath it. She pulled the glass out of his hand and stared at him meaningfully. Killian ignored that. 

“He was disappointed you couldn’t come,” Robin continued as if Killian didn’t have enough to deal with already without the guilt of a six-year-old’s disappointment resting on his shoulders as well. Two days ago he would have said he’d rather have come to the first-grade science fair than shoot this ridiculous all-star competition, but now he wasn’t quite so sure. 

After all, this ridiculous all-star competition seemed to have earned him a date with Emma Swan. 

That’s what this was, right? He wasn’t positive. Had they actually used the word? He couldn’t remember. 

She’d asked him to come to dinner – with her family. With her son. And it had practically killed him to tell her that he couldn’t, to see the disappointment on her face and how she tried to cover it up quickly, like she was revealing some sort of weakness. 

So he’d offered his restaurant, not even bothering to think about reservations at 9 o’clock and silently hoped that everyone got out before 10 – an hour before they normally closed. 

Ariel had only raised her eyebrows at him when he told her to start turning people away at 9:30 and Eric just nodded, seemingly still terrified of Killian after the outburst in the kitchen a little over a week ago. 

It had all, almost, gone according to plan, but now Regina and Robin wouldn’t leave and Roland was asleep and, God, it was ten of. 

He flipped the towel over his shoulder and wiped his hands on the apron still hanging around his waist. “You need to get out of here,” Killian repeated, doing his best to sound like some kind of authority in his own restaurant. 

“What is going on with you?” Robin asked. “You’re running around like they’re coming to collect you or something.”  
  
“Who is they?”   
  
“I don’t know, the eponymous ‘they’ or something. Either way, you look like a mess.”   
  
“A very flustered mess,” Regina added and Killian glared at her, pulling the half-finished martini away and dumping the rest of it down the sink. “An asshole too.”   
  
“Listen, it’s been a ridiculously long day and my head is killing me from the lights before, so if you guys would be so kind as to get out of my restaurant when I’m asking very nicely, I’d really, really appreciate it.”

Regina narrowed her eyes at him, pressing her lips together into a thin, straight line and it looked like she was just about to stand up when the front door opened. All three heads snapped towards the sound to find a slightly stunned and wide-eyed Emma Swan standing in the doorway. 

She hadn’t changed – that same black shirt still on from the afternoon and Killian felt his mouth tick up at the sight of her. She brushed her hair back off her neck, straightening her shoulders defiantly and walking quickly into the dining room. 

Killian could feel Regina’s eyes on him and Robin’s head kept darting between him and Emma like he was watching some sort of maybe-date tennis match. 

“Hey,” Emma said softly, coming up short of the bar, teeth tugging on her lip slightly. 

“Hey,” Killian said, trying to apologize with the one word. “I was, uh, just closing.”  
  
“So I can see.”   
  
Killian nodded and glanced at his friends, still sitting stock-still at his bar with what appeared to be actual surprise on their respective faces. “Come on, Gina,” Robin said softly, putting his hand on the woman’s knee. “Let’s get out of here.”  
  
She nodded once, standing up quickly and turning on Killian in practically the same instant. “Can I talk to you for a second?” she asked, but he could hear the demand in her voice as clear as day. 

“Yeah,” he said, fully aware he didn’t have a choice in the matter. “Give me two seconds, ok?” Emma nodded. 

Killian followed Regina down the hallway towards the kitchen and it took all of five seconds for her to step into his space, nose just inches away from his and a look on her face that would have terrified him if he wasn’t already so frustrated that she hadn’t left when he’d asked her to. 

“Are you insane?” she hissed. “Emma Swan, Killian? Really? What is she doing here?”  
  
“I’d imagine she’s here because I asked her.”   
  
“Don’t do that,” Regina said, smacking his arm sharply. “Don’t play around with me on this. You have got to be kidding me. What is this then? A date?”   
  
Killian shrugged. “Maybe,” he said honestly. “I don’t know. What does it matter, Regina? It’s, quite frankly, not any of your business.”   
  
“Nuh uh, you made it my business when you started maybe-dating one of the other chefs on the show. You know we can’t afford to mess this up, right? You can’t afford to mess this up. Think about the expansion and the restaurant and how much money you can save by winning this thing. Is that what happened before? Did you lose on purpose?”   
  
Killian groaned loudly and rolled his eyes, sliding away from her to try and get his bearings. “I wouldn’t do that and you know it. I just failed to take into account Tink’s tendency to hate chocolate in all forms. Emma liked it.”   
  
“Yeah, well,” Regina huffed, crossing her arms over her chest tightly. “If Emma liked it, that’s all that matters, right?”

He tried not to roll his eyes, but the look on Regina’s face informed him he had failed – terribly. “What’s your problem?”

“My problem is you, literally, can’t afford to get distracted right now.”

“And that’s what you think this is? A distraction?”  
  
“I think you tried to close The Jolly an hour earlier than you normally do and probably turned away a few walk-ups so you can have  _ whatever _ with Emma tonight.”   
Killian shrugged and Regina shot him a critical glare like she was looking at Roland. “And I think you’re making this incredibly awkward.”

“You know she has a son,” Regina said quickly, reaching forward to squeeze his elbow. 

“I know. I met him.”  
  
“What?” Regina’s back straightened and she started tapping her heel again. “When? She doesn’t let anyone know about him.”   
  
“I’m sorry, what?”   
  
“She like, I don’t even know how to explain it, locks up her personal life completely. I know Zelena’s tried talking to Ruby about getting the kid on her show, try to drive up ratings by showing she’s a mother, make her more relatable or something, but she won’t do it. Refuses, or so I’ve been told.”   
  
“Where are you getting your information?”   
  
“I’ve got people,” Regina replied evasively. “And I don’t want you falling in too deep on this, too quickly. Especially with everything else you’ve got going on.”   
  
“I’m perfectly capable of talking to one woman for one night without my entire world imploding.”   
  
Regina eyed him speculatively, lowering one eyebrow slowly and Killian felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. “Yeah,” she said softly, ducking her eyes to stare at her still-tapping foot. “But last time.”   
  
“Nope,” Killian cut in quickly, word popping off his lips as he moved forward to direct Regina out of the hallway. “We’re not doing that.”   
  
“I’m just…”   
  
“Yeah, I know what you’re doing. Stop it.”   
  
Killian directed her back into the dining room to find Emma leaning against of the bar, lips pulled back behind her teeth and a nervous look on her face. Robin was standing a few feet away, a half-awake Roland in his arms. 

“We’re leaving,” Regina announced to no one in particular and, somehow, she’d managed to make it even worse. Killian squeezed his eyes shut tightly and rolled his head back towards the ceiling, trying not to actually push the three of them out the door. 

“Oh, yeah, yeah, of course,” Robin muttered. “Let’s go.”  
  
Regina was out the door a second later, not even bothering to say anything else to Killian and he shook his head slowly at the dramatics of it all. Robin started to follow her, but came up short when Roland lifted his head, scanning the room for Killian. 

“Uncle Killian,” he mumbled, words slurring together with the sleep he hadn’t quite shaken yet. 

“Yeah, mate?” Killian asked, walking towards him and resting his hand on his back. 

“Did you like my project?” 

“I did,” he promised, hand squeezing over Roland’s shirt. “And the ribbon too.”   
  
“First place.”   
  
“And nothing less.”   
  
“Can we make cheeseburgers again tomorrow?”   
  
“Probably not, mate, we don’t want to overwhelm the city with how good we are at making them.”   
  
“Oh,” Roland sighed, head dropping back on Robin’s shoulder. 

“But you can have one if you want. Long as Gina and dad say it’s ok, right?”   
  
Roland’s eyes lit up quickly – like he hadn’t just been sleeping in one of the booths – and Killian’s hand lifted up to tug on the end of his hair. “That sounds good,” Roland muttered, eyes fluttering as Robin started to make his way to the door. “Bye, Uncle Killian.”   
  
“Bye, mate.”   
  
Robin glanced over his shoulder before he pushed open the door, making a significant face at Killian, who got the distinct impression this must be what it felt like to have some kind of  _ normal _ childhood, with a normal family that did horrible, embarrassingly normal things. 

He kind of hated it.

“Go,” he muttered, ushering them out the door and the sound of the wood falling back into the frame when they, finally, did leave echoed in his ears for several moments. 

And, suddenly, they were gone and Killian was by himself with Emma Swan in his restaurant. 

He spun on the spot, not moving away from the door and she was sitting in one of the chairs in front of the bar now, legs crossed and a vaguely amused expression on her face. Killian could still see the tension in her shoulders though, the way she sat on the edge of the chair and how she kept chewing on the edge of her lip. 

“Sorry about that,” he muttered. He still hadn’t moved. 

Emma’s head snapped up quickly at the words and she smiled slightly at him, brushing her hair behind her ears. “So, you’re ‘Uncle Killian,’ huh?” she asked.

The teasing lilt of her voice finally got him to move away from the door and he twisted his lips up into a smile as he walked back towards her, sinking into one his chairs. He left one empty in between them, still not entirely certain what  _ this _ was – Regina’s voice echoing in his head – and she eyed him questioningly when the stupid, ancient stool creaked slightly under his weight. 

“For as long as they’ve been living off my food,” he said, remembering, suddenly, that there was a dish rag hanging off his shoulder and a slightly disgusting apron still wrapped around his waist. This was going well. 

“And how long has that been?” Emma asked quickly, eyes widening slightly when she realized she’d asked something vaguely personal. “I mean, if you don’t mind me asking.”  
  
“I don’t,” he promised. “About five years now.”   
  
“And he’s...what? Six?”   
  
Killian nodded, impressed with her ability to determine ages at a glance. “And 48 weeks.”   
  
“You know that off the top of your head?”   
  
“No,” he laughed. “But Rol does and he’ll be certain to tell you. He’s been counting down his next birthday since the last one.”   
  
“That’s soon then.”   
  
“October 26,” Killian answered. “That one was off the top of my head.”   
  
“Well, color me impressed.”   
  
“Another compliment, Swan? That’s what, three in one day? You’re spoiling me.”   
  
She narrowed his eyes at him, but the small smile on her face was enough to make him certain she wasn’t actually frustrated – maybe even a bit charmed. Maybe this wasn’t going as badly as he thought it was. 

Not that it mattered how it went. 

Because it wasn’t a date. 

Maybe. 

He had absolutely no idea. 

“You call him Rol when you talk about him, but you don’t call him that to his face,” Emma said, ignoring his jab about the compliments. “Why’s that?”  
  
“Are you interviewing me again, Swan?”   
  
She shook her head quickly, hair flying around her face as she moved. “No, no, sorry,” she muttered. “I’m just...curious.”   
  
“So you’ve mentioned.”   
  
“Well,” she said, defiantly crossing her arms. “I am. Is that a bad thing?”   
  
He stuck his lower lip out slightly, shaking his head in response. “Of course not. There are worse things than having you be curious about me.”

“And your relationship with six-year-olds.”   
  
Killian grinned at her, resting his feet on the bottom of the chair in front of him, suddenly wishing he’d sat right next to her. Her eyes flashed to him and, she wasn’t lying – she did look, genuinely, curious. He wasn’t sure what to do with that. 

“Well, you remember I told you about the Navy?” Emma nodded. “Well, Robin was in the Navy as well. British, but a ship is a ship. So Roland is a bit obsessed with all things nautical and he considers himself the first mate of The Jolly Roger. Who am I to deny him the position?”   
  
Emma laughed softly, resting her elbow on the bar and leaning her head against her palm and Killian’s mind drifted away from metaphorical first mates and the Navy and all he could think about was pushing Emma Swan up against the side of that bar and kissing her until she couldn’t see straight. 

It should have surprised him – the thought and the idea and the  _ want _ , but it didn’t. He’d wanted to kiss her since his thumb had brushed across her wrist in the makeup room that morning and she didn’t pull away when he looked at her hand. 

He wanted. A lot. 

“And what does that make you?” Emma asked, shaking him out his thoughts quickly. “The captain of The Jolly Roger? Awfully literary of you.”   
  
“I didn’t pick out the name,” he argued. “It was inherited. And they only call me captain as a joke. It drives me nuts, if I’m being honest.”

“Wait, wait wait,” Emma laughed loudly, the smile on her face doing something very specific to Killian’s ability  _ not _ to kiss her. “Your staff actually does call you captain?”   
  
“It started because of the nickname for Rol, but it’s gotten completely out of hand.”  
  
“Why don’t you like it?”   
  
He pressed his lips together tightly and tapped the toe of his shoe on the side of the chair, trying to come up with an answer that wasn’t entirely depressing. He didn’t have one. And that, in and of itself, was pretty depressing. 

“My brother was the captain,” Killian said softly, staring at the floor. “Not me.”   
  
He could feel Emma’s eyes on him, hear the sound of her even-keeled breathing and it only took a few more seconds for him to actually work up the courage to look at her again. She didn’t look sad or pitying or disappointed – she looked curious. Still. 

“Your brother was in the Navy too?” Emma asked, but there wasn’t any pressure in her voice. And he didn’t feel like he  _ had  _ to answer her. He wanted to answer her. That was a strange change of pace. 

Killian nodded. “That’s why I joined. Live up to some sort of ridiculous expectation or something. Liam was everything a good captain should be, too. He was strict, but he was always fair and his men practically worshipped the ground he walked on. Made it difficult to be the younger Jones brother, that’s for sure, but I, uh, I wouldn’t have wanted to serve under anyone else.”  
  
And he hadn’t. 

As soon as Liam was gone, the moment everyone left the grave and walked away and went on with their lives, Killian had turned in his commission and his uniform and left the Navy – and all the responsibility that went with it – behind him. He’d barely even made it past his five-year requirement out of Annapolis. 

He knew Liam would have been disappointed, would have told him it wasn’t  _ good form _ to walk away and give up and, simply, not care, but he was mad and frustrated and so disappointed his body still ached with the loss sometimes. 

Liam had always been everything to him – a brother and a friend and the father figure he’d never had. And when he was gone, it was like Killian had lost true north. Or some other ridiculous, vaguely nautical term. 

He’d practically grown up on the water – following Liam around everywhere when he first got stationed in New York and managed to keep them in an apartment with food on the table, but the moment Liam died, everything good about the water had died with him. 

“You served under your brother?” Emma asked softly and there was the pity, the quiet words practically stabbing Killian in the gut as she spoke. 

He did his best to keep his face impassive, but he wasn’t positive he was doing a very good job of it – not when Emma was looking at him like some sad, broken thing. Which, he supposed, he kind of was. 

“For awhile,” he nodded, keeping his answers broad on purpose. 

She noticed that and for all his talk of  _ her _ being an open book, Killian got the impression that he might have been the same to her. That probably should have made him far more nervous than he was. 

“Why’d you leave?” she asked and he had to admire her ability to get the crux of the conversation quickly. He didn’t want to talk about it, but he was willing to admit that it was impressive. 

And they were back to this not going all that well. This was depressing. This wasn’t appealing. This wasn’t impressing her with drinks and an incredibly successful restaurant and maybe even bringing her into the kitchen to  _ show off  _ or something. 

He’d considered all those options before she got here. He hadn’t thought they’d end up talking about his dead brother and a failed Naval career.

“It just wasn’t for me anymore,” Killian said quickly, pushing himself out of the chair and walking towards the back of the bar. “You want something to drink?”

Emma nodded, but her eyebrows were still drawn low and Killian knew she wasn’t even remotely satisfied with his answer. “You’re very good at avoiding,” she muttered, tracing a finger over a mark on the counter. 

Killian laughed darkly, running a hand through his hair. “That’s because I wasn’t trying to bring down the mood of the evening.”   
  
“Was there a definite mood?”   
  
“I was hoping there would be.”   
  
She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes at him slightly, the edges of her mouth tilting up as he crossed his arms and leaned against the wall behind the bar. Neither one of them moved for what felt like several hours and, God, he wanted to kiss her. 

Badly. 

He wanted to kiss her badly and find out what she wasn’t telling him about her family and her kid and her charity choice and why she’d taught herself how to make crepes. And then he wanted to tell her everything about him – entire depressing backstory and all. Because he got the feeling she’d understand. 

And, for once in his life, he could use someone who would understand. 

“I don’t think you’ve brought down the mood,” Emma said, finally breaking the silence and making Killian smile. 

“No?”   
  
She shook her head. “No.”   
  
He reached behind him to grab one of the glasses off the wall and raised his eyebrows at her. “What’s your poison, love?” 

Emma practically cackled at that, leaning her whole head back as she laughed and the sound seemed to find his way into his veins and his arteries, pumping through his entire body with a feeling Killian hadn’t felt in a very long time – or, maybe, ever. 

“Does that line actually work on other cognizant human beings?” Emma asked, voice still tinged with laughter. 

“Sometimes,” he said. “I mostly use it to drive up tips.”  
  
“Were you expecting some sort of tip from me?”

Killian raised his eyebrows quickly, smirk settling on his face with practiced ease. This was flirting. He was flirting and she was flirting and they were flirting with each other. Maybe it was a date. Maybe it was going ok. 

“Depends on the tip, I suppose,” he said softly and he couldn't help but smile when he noticed Emma bit her lower lip. 

“Yeah, well, I’m all out of cash.”   
  
“That’s not what I was talking about.”   
  
Emma’s eyes flashed at him and if there wasn’t a very solid wall behind him, Killian would have taken a step back at the mix of green and emotion he saw there. She shook her shoulders, moving her hair again and sitting up straighter. 

“Rum,” she said simply. 

He blinked twice and knew that his mouth was hanging open slightly. “What?”   
  
“Rum,” Emma repeated. “I would like you to make me something that includes a substantial amount of rum. So, go ahead, prove your bartending worth or whatever. I’m more than ready to be impressed.”

Killian gaped at her, lips still parted in a mixture of surprised and impressed. She didn’t stop smiling at him, eyebrows raised in defiance and he’d lost his footing a little bit – without even moving an inch. 

These things usually worked – the lines and the smirk and the slight innuendo – and while he hadn’t exactly been  _ trying _ to find a relationship since  _ her _ , even Killian couldn’t deny that he did alright when it came to getting those tips. 

And then he was suddenly struck with the realization that maybe Emma knew about all of that. He knew what they said at the network – assuming because of the lines and the smirk and the slight innuendo that he spent the better part of his downtime hopping from bed to bed across the city and, until that exact moment, he’d been perfectly fine with letting the rumor circulate. Let them all think whatever they wanted about him. 

He didn’t care. 

But now Emma Swan was sitting alone in his restaurant and, suddenly, Killian wanted her to know he wasn’t a  _ complete _ asshole. He just played one on TV. 

“Rum,” Emma repeated when he didn’t move and he shook his head quickly, grinning and bending down to grab the best bottle he could find. 

He made the drink quickly – one of the first ones he’d ever come up with at The Jolly – and tried not to feel self-conscious with Emma’s eyes on him as he worked. She didn’t say anything else, just waited for her alcohol, but the smile on her face when Killian handed her the glass made him wonder what she was thinking all over again. 

He held up his own glass, leaning it towards her slightly. She eyed him appraisingly, the unspoken question clear in her eyes. “For good luck,” he said softly, reaching his hand forward to tap the edge of his glass against hers. 

“Cheers,” she muttered, taking a sip. He practically saw the tension fall off her shoulders and she leaned her elbows back on the bar while she drank. 

She looked good there – like she belonged at his bar and in his restaurant and his life. Regina was going to kill him. He had completely fallen into the deep end and he wasn’t positive he was even treading water at this point.

“Are the reviews in?” Killian asked, retreating back to the opposite wall and leaning his back against the counter behind him. 

She rolled her eyes at him – his stomach flipping in tandem with the movement – and put the glass down slowly. “It’s good.”  
  
“Just good?”   
  
“You fishing for compliments or something?”   
  
“No, you’ve complimented me enough today. I can deal with ‘good.’”

Emma laughed again and shook her head. “How exactly do you know how to make all these drinks?”   
  
“How do you know how to make crepes?”   
  
“You can’t answer a question with your own question.”   
  
“I’ll answer yours if you answer mine.”   
  
She stared at him for a moment, taking another drink before answering. “Deal.”   
  
Killian nodded once and took a step back towards the bar. “I started working here when I was 28, so about eight years ago now. It was a bar then, although not a very good one, but the guy who owned it gave me a shot when I didn’t have much to my name. So I did my best to pay him back. Came up with my own drinks and ridiculous names and people started to come in regularly. The menu kind of stuck.”   
  
“You don’t change your bar menu for the season then?”   
  
“No,” Killian laughed. “I’ve got my hands full as it is with the food.”   
  
“I knew this place used to be a bar,” Emma said quickly. “I told M’s it was, I…” She cut herself off, lips pressing together tightly like she’d just revealed the combination to locks at Fort Knox. 

“Who’s M’s?” Killian asked, curiosity getting the better of him. Damn the walls. He was going to get, at least, a few answers. 

“My sister-in-law.”   
  
“She wouldn’t happen to be the woman I promised a reservation to is she?”   
  
“One and the same.”

“So that means you’ve got some kind of sibling then.”   
  
“I do. A brother.”   
  
“And?”   
  
“And what?”   
  
“And whatever you want to tell me. He have a name? Is he older than you? What’s he do?”   
  
“Those are several different questions. I was only supposed to tell you about the crepes.”   
  
“Yeah, well, you got me to talk about the Navy, which is something that very rarely happens. So fair’s only fair.”   
  
“Quid pro quo and all that?” Emma asked, taking another sip of her drink. Her right hand gripped the glass tightly and her left moved over the chain around her neck again, whatever was hanging on it, hidden underneath her t-shirt. 

Killian shrugged. “No one’s forcing you to tell me anything, Swan. I’m curious.”   
  
Emma took a deep breath and looked at him intently, like she was trying to figure out if he was lying. She seemed to realize he wasn’t after a few moments, eyes locking with his in a way that had him practically frozen to the floor. 

“My brother’s name is David. He’s four years older than me and he’s a cop. He and Mary Margaret – I call her M’s sometimes because that name's a mouthful – have been married for nearly three years and they’re going to have their first kid in a couple of months.”   
  
“Ah, that explains why you were so worried about her running around.”   
  
She nodded and shrugged at the same time and made some sort of noise in the back of her throat. “Mostly I was worried that David would yell at me for  _ letting _ her run around. He’s incredibly overprotective.”   
  
“I’d imagine the prospect of becoming a father does that to some people.”   
  
“Some people,” Emma mumbled. There was more to that then what she was saying – he was sure of it – but he didn’t want to push, wary of the walls that were still very much in front of him. “But he’s taking it to a whole other level. It’s making all of us crazy.”

“He wasn’t like that before?” Killian asked before he could stop himself, squeezing his eyes shut tightly once the words were passed his lips. So much for not pushing.

“What do you mean?” Emma’s eyes turned hard as she spoke, the letters practically spit across the bar at him. He cracked open his eyes to find her glaring at him and he downed the rest of his drink in one gulp before he spoke again. 

“Ummm,” he stammered. “I just meant with you. Before. Sorry, sorry, that’s, uh, that’s not any of my business.”

“It’s not.”   
  
“I’m sorry.”   
  
Emma huffed out a deep breath, like she’d been holding in the air for several minutes and twisted her lips slightly, finger moving around the top of her glass slowly. “It’s ok,” she said softly, staring at the drink. “Like I said before, I’m not very good at talking. To anyone really.”   
  
“You seem to be doing an ok job of it now. I’m the one fucking things up.”   
She smiled at him and it looked genuine and Killian tried to keep her gaze without blinking like a lunatic. “You’re not,” she promised.

“That’s good.”

He was back in front of her again, leaning over the bar so there was only a few inches of space in between them and he was positive Emma’s smile was practically imprinted on his brain at this point. “What about you?” she asked, suddenly. 

“What about me?”  
  
“No kids? No pregnant wives to be absurdly overprotective of?”   
  
He straightened quickly, the questions falling into his gut like a stone and Killian shook his head before Emma had even finished talking. 

She looked warily at him, seemingly understanding that  _ she’d _ started pushing and the smile was gone again, replaced by a slightly nervous look and half-bitten lower lip. “No,” he said softly, wondering if he’d look like an ass for making another drink. Or possibly just doing several shots of rum. 

He wanted it – had since he’d been a kid and everyone had left or died and he and Liam had to become each other’s only family. And for a few moments, Killian thought he’d found it. He was positive. He’d stumbled into happiness, even after losing Liam, and, eventually, he and Milah would have it all. 

They’d have the family and the support and the  _ love _ . And he’d be happy again. But then they’d gotten in the cab and it was raining and the driver had been drinking. 

And, suddenly, that promise of  _ eventually _ was gone before it even got a chance to actually try for it and Killian was alone – again. 

“I’m sorry,” Emma whispered, finishing off her own drink in the process. 

“Don’t be, love,” he said, reaching for the rum again and filling each other glasses straight without another word. Killian raised his glass again, tilting it towards Emma and doing his best to smile. “Good luck,” he repeated.

She nodded and tapped her glass against his, the sound practically ricocheting off the walls. They each downed the shots and Emma shivered slightly in her seat. 

“Not much for alcohol are you, Swan?” Killian asked, laughing softly. 

“Not for a very long time,” she said. “I can’t quite afford to get distracted. Henry’s always running somewhere or needing do something and I barely get two seconds to myself to sleep, let alone drink.”  
  
“Is that what this is?”   
  
“What?”   
  
“A distraction.”

“No,” Emma said and the honesty in her voice was as clear as a bell or the sound of their glasses clinking a few moments before. “It’s not.”   
  
Killian smiled at her and he thought he noticed her cheeks flush slightly, but that might have been because of the alcohol or the lighting in the restaurant. “So your brother’s a cop?” he asked. 

“Detective, actually,” Emma clarified. “He always wanted to be in law enforcement. It terrifies M’s, of course, and me too a little bit, but he’s good at what he does. And, well, he likes it so, who am I to tell him not to?”   
  
“Awfully mature of you, Swan.”   
  
“A top-tier adult,” she laughed. “That’s why I picked the charity I did. For David. Figured it was better than something food-related. That seemed a little too obvious.”   
  
“Didn’t they ask you about your reasoning on camera?” 

“Yeah and I hated that,” Emma sighed. “But no one really  _ needs _ to know why I picked it. Just that I like the NYPD or something like that and the work the Foundation does in the community. Or something. What did you pick?”   
  
“NMC Relief.”   
  
“I don’t speak Army.”   
  
“Navy, Swan,” he said, not able to completely mask his smile behind his exasperated tone. “There’s a definite difference.” Emma shrugged. “Navy-Marine Corp Relief. They do a lot of stuff with retired  Sailors and Marines and their families  and stuff. It’s good work.”   
  
“I thought you were done with the Navy.”   
  
He hadn’t been expecting that. Open book. It worked both ways. 

“Maybe it was more that the Navy was done with me. It wasn’t exactly a positive breakup.”   
  
“But still enough to want to fundraise for them?”   
  
“It’s good work,” Killian repeated. “And Regina might have thought it’d be a good idea to pick something that kind of tied in with my life not in the kitchen.”   
  
“You’re cool with that?” Emma asked. Killian made a noise in the back of his throat, neither a yes nor a no. “Ruby usually has to fight tooth and nail to try and get me to give any sort of information about myself on camera.”   
  
“She seems like she can be rather ruthless.”   
  
“She can. But so can I.”   
  
“Can I ask you a question?” Emma’s eyes widened, but she nodded quickly. “Why?”   
  
“Why what?”   
  
“Why the very definitive lines between cooking-you and home-you? I mean you’re yourself when you’re on the show, right? So why keep everything so secret?”   
  
Emma crossed her arms and Killian worried he’d pushed too far again, but when she spoke her voice was as even as it had been for the last few minutes. “I’ve got Henry to worry about. And I don’t want him involved in something where it might not work out perfectly. There’s always a few too many possibilities and maybes when it comes to the show and the network and what’s next and I don’t want to bring him on or let him get attached to something if it’s just going to disappear eventually.”  
  
That was the most information he’d gotten out of her all night and Killian wondered, not for the first time, what Emma Swan had lost that made her positive everything and everyone would eventually leave. 

“You don’t know that’s true,” he argued. “You’ve had the show for what? Two years? And you’re apparently some sort of  _ New York Times _ bestseller, so it seems as if things have been fairly successful so far.”   
  
“Ruby loves to trot out the  _ Times _ fact too, but it’s less impressive when you realize it’s just an instructional book list and I’m competing against other cookbooks and self-help nonsense.”   
  
“Still a good bullet to have your resume.”

“That’s why this competition is so important though,” Emma continued and Killian blinked at the information she’d offered up on her own. He didn’t say anything else, just waited for her to keep talking and she did. “They bumped me up earlier on Sunday morning a couple of months ago and, well, it’s not doing much for our numbers. But if I can do well on this all-star thing and maybe make myself more personable or something, then maybe they’ll give me back my 10:00 slot and the numbers will go back to normal.”  
  
Fuck. 

She needed to win too. 

He knew she wanted to win as soon as he met her, but now Killian knew she  _ needed _ this timeslot back to give her some sort of confidence that her position on the network wouldn’t be ripped away from her at any moment. And, suddenly, his own determination to win took another major hit. 

His disappointment must have shown on his face – and he was usually so much better about controlling that – because Emma was staring at him, eyebrows pulled down low. Killian shook his head quickly and plastered an almost-real smile back on his face. Emma looked like she almost believed him. 

“You ok?” she asked. 

“Absolutely,” he promised. “You know you never answered my crepe question.”   
  
She laughed softly and the tension between them seemed to dissolve quickly. “That’s true.”   
  
“It was ridiculously good.”   
  
“Thanks,” she muttered. “That’s one of the first recipes I came up with. I’d learned how to do it by the book while I was at school, but I could never quite get them right with the recipes I’d been following. They always half fell apart at the end and they were more like crepe strips than anything legitimate. So I played around with measurements and figured out a way to get them to hold together in the pan. And the strawberry compote is one of my closest-guarded secrets. I’ll take that recipe to my grave.”

“Not pass it on to Henry? Some sort of Swan-family recipe?”

Emma shook her head. “He’s not much a cook. At least not yet.”  
  
“Ah, well, he’s young. I didn’t start cooking until I was out of the Navy.”   
  
“Really?” Emma asked, face stunned slightly. 

“Really. Self-taught and everything.”   
  
“You’re kidding me.”   
  
“I promise, Swan. I’m not.”   
  
“Jeez,” she sighed. “No wonder you’re so confident. I would be too if I just realized I was that good at cooking. How exactly did you learn? Just like started playing around with recipes or?”   
  
“Well, I needed to eat,” Killian laughed. “And five years of having food, if that’s what you want to call it, provided for you wasn’t exactly a good basis for learning. So I bought a $4 cookbook from a thrift store downtown and practically memorized it.”  
  
“Four dollars?”   
  
“Yup. Hidden treasures and whatnot.”   
  
“Captain of The Jolly Roger plunders for gold in downtown thrift stores?”   
  
“I’ve never been a captain.”   
  
“What did you leave as? If, you know, you don’t mind me asking.”   
  
Killian grinned at her and shook his head. “Lieutenant.”

Emma let out a low whistle, eyes dropping back towards the bar. “An officer.”   
  
“You graduate as an officer, Swan,” he argued. “Trust me, it’s not that impressive.”   
  
“Ah and there it is.”   
  
“There’s what?”   
  
“The one thing you’re not confident about.”   
  
Killian pursed his lips, wondering how she’d managed to figure him out so quickly. He didn’t add that he still wasn’t confident in her or  _ this _ , but that seemed beside the point. Emma smiled at him and it had the same encouraging air as his had when they were cooking earlier that afternoon. 

“Seems impressive to me,” Emma added. “For whatever that’s worth.”   
  
“A lot,” Killian said without even considering the words. Emma’s head lifted up and her eyes met his and he was absolutely going to kiss her. Or she was going to kiss him. He wasn’t sure and he didn’t care, he just wanted her. 

So, naturally, she leapt out of her chair, moving like she’d been shocked. And she was all wide eyes and hair flying around her face and the tension Killian was positive they’d broke through was practically stifling in the otherwise empty restaurant. 

“I should probably get home,” she said, staring at the floor again. 

Killian swallowed and nodded slowly, fingers pressing into the back of his neck until it hurt, so he wouldn’t be tempted to move around the bar and grab her by the waist. “Ok,” he said softly. “Let me get my coat.”   
  
“You don’t have to do that,” Emma argued. “It’s only three blocks. And it’s not that late. Plus, I’m sure you’ve got a ton of stuff to do here.”  
  
“It won’t take that long. I can walk you home.”   
  
“I’m a big girl. I can walk three blocks by myself.”   
  
They stared at each other for a few moments and Killian sighed, realizing he wasn’t going to win this argument. Emma reached forward to grab her own jacket off one of the chairs, sliding her arms back into the sleeves and glancing warily at him, still behind the bar. 

Killian walked around slowly, trying to keep his steps measured so she couldn’t see how hard he was breathing, and moved towards the door, resting his hand on the handle in front of him. 

“Thanks for the drinks,” Emma said softly, following behind him until she was only a few inches away. He could feel her there like her back was strapped to his again. “You were right, you are pretty good at it.”  
  
“So many compliments, Swan.”   
  
“Yeah, well, they’re easy when you deserve them.”   
  
She needed to stop saying things like that. It wasn’t fair. Killian took a slow, deep breath and smiled at her, keeping his hands pressed against his jeans so he didn’t do something stupid like try and hold her hand.  

“I’ll, um, I’ll see you soon?” he asked, suddenly realizing they didn’t film again for another month and a half. The idea of not seeing her for that long made his heart stutter in a way he hadn’t entirely expected and he was suddenly nervous she wouldn’t want to. 

“Yeah,” Emma said softly. “I’m sure they’ll have us doing promotional stuff sooner rather than later.”   
  
“Or, you know,” Killian said quickly. “You could always come back here. Before then. We’ve got reservations until the end of time I’m sure, but there’s almost always room at the bar and I did promise Henry a cheeseburger.”   
  
Emma’s eyes fluttered as she blinked quickly. It was the first time Killian had called her son by his name and he knew that meant  _ something _ – to both of them. 

“That, uh, that sounds nice.”   
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“Yeah.”   
  
Killian nodded slowly again and wondered, again, why he wasn’t kissing her. He wanted to. He was fairly positive she wanted to. And yet they were both standing there like teenagers who’d never been on a date before. 

If that’s what this was. 

They still hadn’t used that word again. 

“Do you have a number?” Emma asked quickly. 

“Like a phone number?”   
  
“Yeah.”   
  
He grinned at her and held his hand out. “Give me your phone, Swan.” She did and he put her number in her contacts, effectively leaving the metaphorical ball in her court. Let her make the next move. He wouldn’t push. 

Emma’s fingers brushed over his when she took her phone back, stuffing it in her pocket, but she smiled at him. “I’ll let you know before we come?”   
  
“Sure.”   
  
“Ok,” she said and it sounded like she was trying to convince herself of the word as well. “I’ll, um, I’ll see you later.”   
  
“Yeah.”

And then she was gone and the door was closed and Killian was leaning against the stupid thing, heart thumping in his chest and head spinning. 

He walked back to the bar slowly, grabbing the bottle of rum and taking a swig of it, not even bothering to look at the glass a few inches away, before heading back to the kitchen, wondering how a kid who practically grew up on the water had managed to find himself drowning in the idea of Emma Swan. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's been a week, hasn't it? I am a mess of emotions and feelings and then, for good measure, some more emotions and I don't really know what way is up, so I will just continue to write it all out. There's a ton of story left here and a ridiculously long CS Big Bang story (and currently-being-written sequel) and I've still got a lot of feelings about how in love Killian and Emma are, so I'm going to keep writing. 
> 
> As always, @laurnorder is the absolute embodiment of word-reading perfection. Come flail with me on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	9. Chapter 9

She woke up with a headache, but Emma wasn’t certain if that was from the rum or the conversation or the seemingly incessant pounding on her front door.

God, she needed to get out more.

And she promised she would.

Her phone was on the other side of the room – dropped haphazardly on a pile of clothes the night before – but Emma could practically feel the weight of it in her hand anyway, Killian Jones’ phone number almost screaming at her. As if phone numbers were sentient now.

Emma ignored the still-knocking front door, pushing the noise to the back of her brain as she tried to think back on the last 24 hours of her life.

He was going to kiss her. Or she was going to kiss him. She wasn’t positive. The only thing she knew, for certain, was that she wanted to and as soon as she’d realized _that_ she’d nearly run out the door.

Nearly, of course, being the operative word.

She hadn’t run – she’d practically leapt out of her chair and the surprise on Killian’s face would have almost been funny, if not ridiculously attractive, if it weren’t for all the reasons Emma had stopped herself from kissing him in the first place.

She couldn’t.

Or shouldn’t.

Or both at the same time.

And she wanted to. Badly.

Emma hadn’t had a conversation like that in, well, not since before Henry was born and the last time she’d had a conversation like that it had led to Henry, so she panicked. As she was apt to do.

And, yet, he didn’t seem to mind. At least not a lot. He’d shot her that infuriatingly supportive smile and run his hand through his hair and tried to walk her home and Emma made him give her his phone number, the promise of bringing Henry back to his restaurant on her lips like it wasn’t the most important sentence she’d uttered in nearly thirteen years.

It was all Roland’s fault.

That six-year-old kid had woken up and called him _Uncle Killian_ and, suddenly, all bets were off.

And now she was blaming a six-year-old for her emotional shortcomings. Emma had completely lost control of her life in the span of twenty-four hours.

The knocking was back, only now it was more like banging and she could hear someone yelling from the hallway. “I know you’re in there! Don’t make me knock the door down because you’ll have to explain it to your super and I know that’s something you don’t want to do!”  
  
Emma sighed, falling back on her pillows with a small humph – David.

Stupid, overprotective and concerned David. He’d probably tried to call, let her know that Henry got to school alright – which was something she’d normally have been interested in if she wasn’t too busy having an existential crisis in her bedroom – and when she hadn’t answered, decided to take it upon himself to come check on her.

She hoped the crime downtown didn’t hit an upswing because her brother couldn’t wait a few hours for Emma to call him back.

“I’m more than capable of knocking down this door, Emma!” he yelled and it sounded like his shoulder had actually collided with the wood. “And you’re being absurdly stubborn. Even for you.”

Emma sighed again, but pushed herself off the bed, glancing towards the window to try and get some idea of what time it was. She left her phone where it was, jogging towards the front door and swinging it open just as David was about to yell again. His mouth snapped shut at the sight of her and he narrowed his eyes threateningly, crossing his arms and shaking his head at her.

“You should do some meditation or something,” Emma said, leaning against the now-open door frame. “Keep your heartrate down.”  
“You’re a doctor now, huh?”

“I am the one with more kid experience. I’m just saying you’re going to wear yourself out before tiny-Nolan is even born. Can’t have you collapsing while on baby duty, Detective.”

David groaned, pushing on Emma’s shoulder and walking her back into the small hallway just inside her apartment. “No one is collapsing,” he said seriously, dropping his hand only long enough to recross his arms. “Except maybe you. But now I have confirmation that you’re alive and well, so I suppose I can cross that off my list of worries.”  
  
“Why would you think I was collapsing somewhere?” Emma asked, turning towards the kitchen to start the coffee maker and maybe figure out what was in her fridge. Aside from the compliment-seeking french toast, she hadn’t actually _made_ anything in awhile and the mom/chef combo inside her was feeling particularly unproductive.   

“You have any idea what time it is?”

Emma shrugged, glancing over her shoulder to stare at David. He, on the other hand, did not seem overly amused. In fact, he was the picture of _frustrated older brother_ , a statue just on the edge of her kitchen floor, arms crossed so tightly Emma was worried he’d do something detrimental to his circulation.

“It’s almost 12:30,” David continued, finally taking a step into the kitchen and leaning against the counter.

“What?”  
  
“12:30, Em,” he repeated. “It is almost 12:30 in the afternoon. You know what time I texted you to tell you Henry got to school? 8:30. That’s almost four hours ago. Four hours of waiting for you to respond and wondering why you pushed your kid off on me last night without so much as a reasonable explanation.”  
  
“I had a reasonable explanation,” Emma argued, but her voice sounded defeated even to her. “I told you. I was just tired. I wanted to catch up on some sleep and, you know, I did. Apparently.”

She failed to add that the reason she’d managed to sleep until 12:30 in the afternoon, or at least _almost_ 12:30 in the afternoon, was because she hadn’t fallen asleep until nearly three in the morning – mind racing with thoughts of Killian and how easy it had been to talk to him.

Her brother didn’t want to know that.

Or need to know that.

“You’re an enormous liar,” David said simply, hopping up onto her counter. He looked like an enormous kid – legs kicking out in front of him slightly while he straightened his department-mandated tie. He shifted a few times, trying to find a comfortable way of sitting with a gun holster strapped to his waist and finally gave up, yanking the thing out of the holder and putting it down on the counter next to him.

“You did not just put a gun on my kitchen counter like it was no big deal,” Emma sighed, crossing her own arms.

“Where else would you like me to put it?”  
  
“Anywhere but my counter.”

David groaned, but did as instructed – it never too much to get him to cave to Emma – and reholstered his gun, shifting his body again on the counter. “You really going to tell me what’s going on now?” he asked. “Or you want to keep pretending like you normally sleep until the middle of the afternoon?”  
  
“Almost 12:30 is hardly the middle of the afternoon,” Emma argued, pulling out a loaf of bread she didn’t actually remember buying and four eggs. “That’s, like, early afternoon at best.”  
  
“What are you doing?” David asked, ignoring her point completely.

“I am making you food. It is your lunch break isn’t it? One you’ve given up because you’re a ridiculous, overprotective idiot who worries too much?”

“Yuh huh.”  
  
“It is your lunch break, is it not?”

“It is.”  
  
“Then let me pay you back by feeding you. It’s the only talent I’ve got.”  
  
David hopped off the counter and stared at her, the disbelief written on his face. “You don’t actually think that do you?”  
  
Emma hummed in the back of her throat, flicking one of the knobs on the stove and bending down to pull a pan out of the cabinet close to the floor. “Emma,” David said seriously, pulling her short and forcing her to turn around and look at him, the hand on her shoulder tightening slightly. “C’mon I’m serious. You don’t really think that do you?”  
  
“Pleading the fifth?” she asked, trying to add a bit of humor to the otherwise depressing direction this conversation had taken. David didn’t look pleased.

“You are a hell of a lot more than the food, Em. Although the food isn't anything to scoff at either.”  
  
“Yeah?” she said, cracking the eggs over the pan and stuffing a few slices of bread on the other end of the counter.

“Yeah,” David repeated, nearly barking the word at her. “For one thing, you’re the greatest mother in the history of the world.”  
  
“Don’t let M’s hear you say that,” Emma laughed, tossing a handful of cheese into the eggs and shaking some pepper on top. “She’s liable to just burst into tears at the thought. Those hormones and everything.”  
  
“Well, one of two at least,” David corrected, grinning at her. “And she can’t keep using that excuse for the next six months. I think she’s just doing it to mess with me now.”   
  
“The same way you’re worried about her _exerting_ herself?” Emma countered, flicking a fork through the the eggs quickly, moving her wrist without even having to think about it. “Because that excuse is getting a little old too.”   
  
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”   
  
“Sure,” Emma said, rolling her eyes. “Hand me two plates from that cabinet next to your head, will you?”

David nodded, twisting his arm behind him to pull open the cabinet door and only grunting slightly at the completely unnatural position. “There was definitely an easier way to do that,” Emma laughed, holding her hand out. David handed her the plates, but something in his eye caught Emma’s and she lowered her eyebrows questioningly. “What?”  
  
“You know there’s a reason for it,” he said, as if she was supposed to understand that.

“Cryptic,” Emma answered. “A reason for what?”  
  
“The worry.”

Her eyebrows shot up, but she did her best to keep her face even, turning back towards the stove to pile scrambled eggs on David’s plate. “And that reason is?”  
  
“They’re going to open up the sergeant's exam in a couple of weeks, like right before Thanksgiving and, uh, I’m going to take it.”  
  
Emma nodded slowly – she wasn’t completely surprised by the news. David was an absurdly good police officer – his arrest record was consistently one of the best in the precinct – and he’d only gotten better once he got promoted to detective. He had an _eye_ for things – those kind of things regularly being major crime busts – but he was good at what he did and he deserved to be a sergeant.

Even if it terrified Emma just a little bit.

“That’s good though,” she said, pushing the plate towards him. “Isn’t it?”  
  
He made a noise in the back of his throat, fork toying with the eggs in front of him and rolled his head back and forth. “It would be,” he said softly, eyes refusing to meet Emma’s. “If I told Mary Margaret.”  
  
“What?”

She was screeching. She knew it because the sound of her voice actually hurt her head. But Emma didn’t know how else to react. David told Mary Margaret _everything_ and, most of the time, Mary Margaret told David everything right back – except, Emma thought belatedly, about Killian. She hoped Mary Margaret hadn’t told David about Killian.

“Don’t yell,” David muttered, smiling at her and, finally, glancing up at her from underneath his eyelashes.

And suddenly Emma felt like she was sixteen and freaking out because David was considering moving to New York after college. He’d told her not to yell then too.

So she didn’t yell – then or now – she just followed his lead, always.

“I”m not yelling,” Emma sighed and David’s smile got even more pronounced. “I’m just trying to understand. You tell M’s everything.”

“I’m not sure how.”  
  
“How?”

“She’ll get worried. She’s already terrified something’s going to happen now. What happens when I’m in charge of other officers and I’ve got to put them before me?”

“That’s not any different than what you’d do now,” Emma pointed out.

If nothing else, David Nolan was, possibly, the bravest man she’d ever met – always determined to do the _right_ thing, protecting everyone else, even when they couldn’t. Especially when they couldn’t.

It was how she’d ended up in the spare bedroom of his house in the first place.

“Yeah, but in six months I’ll have a kid,” David sighed, stuffing a forkful of eggs into his mouth with all the grace of someone who was slightly terrified at the prospect of being responsible for another human being.

“I didn’t think you were nervous about tiny-Nolan,” Emma said, hopping up onto the counter next to him and nudging his arm. “Weren’t you the one who wanted eight hundred kids?”  
  
“Not eight hundred.”   
  
“But at least like six, right?”   
  
“Maybe a solid three.”   
  
“Does M’s know that?”   
  
David rolled his eyes, climbing back on the counter and bumping his head against her shoulder with so much drama Emma was curious if they’d suddenly time-travelled back a decade and a half. “Of course Mary Margaret knows that. She’s the one who came up with the three number.”   
  
“But not about the officer’s exam?”   
  
“Exactly.”   
  
“You still haven’t really explained why.”   
  
“I just told you,” David mumbled, sighing again dramatically. Emma tried not to laugh. That would have been inappropriate. He gave up her lunch break for this. She couldn’t laugh at him on his lunch break. “Because of the kid.”   
  
“And, what, you’re going to have a kid and suddenly this is going to get more dangerous?”   
  
“No, I’m going to have a kid and try and take this exam and have approximately a thousand things to deal with at once.”   
  
“Yeah, well, welcome to the club.”   
  
“Is that why you pushed Henry off on us last night?” David was smiling again – plate of eggs almost empty – and Emma shook her head at him, punching him softly in the side. He threw his body back dramatically and she groaned loudly at the dramatics of it all. He was ridiculous and worried and so overprotective, but he might also be Emma’s best friend and, aside from Henry, the single most important person in her life.

Not like she’d ever tell him that.

He’d probably laugh at her and then do that thing where he hugged her tightly and cupped the back of her head like she was still thirteen and made her forget everything she’d ever been worried about in the history of her entire life.

And that was, absolutely, the worst.

“I told you why Henry stayed with you last night,” Emma said pointedly, narrowing her eyes. David didn’t budge, one side of his mouth tilted up in a smile.

“And I believe that as much as you believe me,” he answered, rolling his eyes for good measure. “Is this about a guy?”  
  
Emma’s eyes actually _hurt_ with how wide they got and her stomach was probably on the kitchen floor at this point – she couldn’t quite bring herself to look. “It’s totally about a guy isn’t it?” David continued, face a mix of curiosity and _big brother_ and that did something else entirely to the state of Emma’s stomach.

“It’s not about a guy,” Emma said quickly. Her voice kept steady during the sentence though and she got a feeling it was because Killian Jones wasn’t a _guy_ – he was, well, she wasn’t entirely sure what he was, but she was just as curious as ever to figure it out.

David’s mouth twisted into something that resembled disbelief and Emma jumped back off the counter, holding her hand out again for his empty plate. He gave it to, seemingly waiting for her to continue and Emma shook her head as she put the dishes in the sink. “When would I even have the time, anyway?” she continued, turning back around to stare at him.

He shrugged. “I have no idea, but maybe it’s not the worst idea in the history of the world.”  
“What?”

Emma was screeching again and David glared at her, sliding back onto the floor and readjusting his holster as he moved. “I don’t know,” he said, shrugging again for good measure. “But you know, if this _were_ about a guy, it might not be the worst thing that’s ever happened. Could be good actually. If you were happy.”  
  
“I’m already happy.”   
  
“And I’m not arguing that, but you deserve something more than making me eggs on my lunch break, Em.”   
  
“You’re the one who showed up at my door.”   
  
“Because I’m worried about you. You didn’t answer your phone.”   
  
“I was asleep.”   
  
David sighed and shook his head, but he didn’t press her anymore. He knew when it was enough, knew when Emma had enough, knew when to back off. He always had.

She briefly considered apologizing and telling him about Killian and how much she _wanted_ and how much that terrified her, but then her phone rang loudly from her bedroom and Emma held up one finger, silently asking David to wait as she sprinted down the hallway.

The phone was on its fourth ring and Emma knew she was dangerously close to voicemail territory when she grabbed the stupid thing from the pile of clothes at her feet, swiping her thumb across the screen without even looking at the ID.

“Hello?” Emma said, voice a bit breathless after her run across the apartment.  
  
“I need you to come in.”

“Ruby?”  
  
“Who else would tell you they need you to come in?”   
  
“I don’t know,” Emma brushed off. “What do you need?”   
  
“Henry left his textbook at Granny’s last night and I have it. Unless you want him to fail out of middle school, you should probably come get it.”   
  
“You can’t bring it here? It’s like my one day off for the rest of the year. I was kind of hoping I’d be able to avoid going uptown.”   
  
“I can’t bring it,” Ruby snapped back. “I have meetings all day. To deal with _your_ show and this stupid all-star thing”   
  
“That was your idea.”   
  
“No, that was Zelena’s idea. I just told you about it.”   
  
“Fine,” Emma sighed. “Fine. I’ll come by later. Henry gets out of school at 2:30, we’ll be there by three o’clock. Does that work for you?”   
  
“I’ll be in a meeting, but you can break into my office if you’re interested.”   
  
“Leave the door unlocked.”   
  
“And risk someone just walking in there? Nope. Use those skills I know you have and break in. Trust me, you’ll earn some cool-mom bonus points with your kid when you do.”

“I’m not breaking locks in front of my kid.”  
  
“Yeah, well,” Ruby said, voice thick with sarcasm. “That’s your call, I guess. But that seems like your best option.”   
  
Emma rolled her eyes as she walked back into the living room and mouthed _Ruby_ at her brother. He answered her face with an eye roll of his own and chuckled slightly as he swung open the refrigerator door, undoubtedly looking for something to drink.

There wasn’t anything in there.

She was the worst at-home chef on the planet.

“I will be there at three o’clock with my kid and we will ask security to open up your office like responsible human beings,” Emma said pointedly, falling into _mom tone_ quickly. Ruby, of course, picked up on that immediately.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, you’re the best and so rule-abiding and boring,” Ruby mumbled. “I’ll talk to you later.”  
  
“Bye.”   
  
Emma yanked her hair out of the ponytail it had been in while she’d sort-of-slept and met David’s gaze from the other side of the kitchen. “You’ve got to go in don’t you?” he asked.

“How’d you figure that out.”  
  
“You’ve got a look on your face.”   
  
“I do not!”   
  
“You do and you should probably shower in case you run into this guy you’re totally not worried about when you walk into the office.”   
  
“He won’t be there,” Emma mumbled before she could think better of it. David’s answering laugh was nothing short of triumphant.

“I knew there was a guy.”  
  
“Get out.”   
  
“You’re just mad because I know you.”   
  
“And after I made you eggs.”   
  
“And I appreciated the eggs, but I know you, kid, and I know when you’re nervous about something and you’re nervous about this guy.”   
  
Emma sighed and rolled her head back and forth, trying to get rid of some of the tension that had taken control of her entire spine. “How’d you know he’d be at the network?”   
  
“Emma, please,” David laughed. “You know three people outside of the network – me, Mary Margaret and Henry. And we don’t even really count. He was always going to work at the network. So what is he? Camera guy? Post-production? He’s obviously not a chef, you wouldn’t want to mix things like that.”   
  
“Mix things like what?”

She kept asking questions. She needed to stop doing that. It was just prolonging the conversation. And she really needed to take a shower.

“Someone else cooking the food,” David said, like it was obvious. “You always have to be the one cooking the food, Em. It’s a control thing.”  
  
“Get out,” she repeated, walking forward to grab hold of his sleeve and yank him towards her. He laughed again.

And then he hugged her and he cupped the back of her head like he always did and kissed the top of her hair and, God, if Emma didn’t nearly start crying in the middle of her kitchen. “Now you’re just not playing fair,” she mumbled against his tie.

She could feel his chest move when he chuckled softly underneath her and he kissed her again. “What would Henry call it? Operation: Happy-Emma?”  
  
“Nah, he’d come up with a better name.”   
  
“I’m kind of partial to this one.”   
  
“I am happy.”   
  
“There’s not a limit on happiness, Em. You don’t reach a quota. It’s unlimited and no one deserves it more than you do.”   
  
“You and your wife are the biggest saps on the entire planet.”   
  
“Lucky you’re stuck with us,” he said, leaning back and practically beaming at her. “I gotta get back to work. Go take a shower, you look like someone who slept until nearly 12:30 in the afternoon.”   
  
“Ass,” Emma muttered, punching his side again.

David hugged her again, squeezing her tightly against him before smiling at her and walking towards the door. She stayed rooted to the spot as he moved, waiting for the sound of the door slamming shut before turning back towards the bathroom and, finally, getting in the shower.

It didn’t matter, she told herself. They’d be in and out of the building in five minutes, tops. He wouldn’t be there. And even if he was, it wouldn’t matter. She didn’t need to worry about that. It’s not like anything had happened the night before.

It even sounded like a lie in her head.

* * *

“What are you doing here?” Henry asked, walking down the steps his middle school with a slightly mystified look on his face.

Emma tried to ignore the stab of guilt at the question – she rarely picked Henry up from school, usually meeting him at the apartment or at David and Mary Margaret’s or Granny’s back-corner booth.

“I figured I’d come get you instead of schlepping you back to David and M’s this afternoon. Plus, _someone_ left a textbook at Granny’s last night and Ruby brought it with her to the office so we’ve got to go to the studio to pick it up.”   
  
“We’re going into the studio?”   
  
“I’m pretty certain you’ll need to do homework at some point, so, yeah, we’re going to get the book. But just the book, ok? No wandering around or poking in on sets. Deal?”   
  
Henry’s shoulders sagged and he made a noise that was a mix of a groan and an overly dramatic sigh – he absolutely got that from David. “I guess,” he mumbled.

“We can break into Ruby’s office if you want.”  
  
“Yeah?” His eyes lit back up at that and, suddenly, he was standing straight and Emma was silently cursing Ruby for getting in her head.

“Ruby’s in a meeting and I was going to ask security, but this seems kind of fun, right?”  
  
“Super fun.”   
  
“Alright kid, come on, let’s go commit a misdemeanor.”   
  
Emma had no intention of getting back on the train for the 10-block trip to the network – particularly when they had to go crosstown and would have actually needed to go 20 blocks out of their way to transfer – so she let Henry hail a cab and made it to 6th Avenue in nearly record time.

The same security guard was sitting behind the desk in the lobby and he nearly dropped the magazine he was reading when Emma and Henry walked in. “Ms. Swan,” he yelled and Henry nearly choked on the air he was breathing. “It’s so nice to see you again!”  
  
“I thought we decided on Emma before, Doc,” she said, flashing her ID badge.

He nodded quickly, spinning in his chair as Emma directed Henry towards the bank of elevators at the back of the room. “Yeah, yeah, we did,” he agreed. “It’s nice to see you. Are you filming again today?”  
  
“Nah, just here to pick something up. We’ll probably be back down in five minutes.”   
  
“And who do you have with you today?”

Emma tried not to sigh loudly and felt her hand clench around Henry’s shoulder out of instinct. He tried to brush her off, but he was still 12 and Emma still had the distinct strength advantage in this relationship. “I’m Henry,” he said, throwing her a vaguely defiant look. “I’m her son.”  
  
“Son?” Doc repeated. “I didn’t know you had a son.”   
  
“Yeah, I tend to keep my personal life personal,” Emma said shortly, words falling out of her mouth with a hint of frustration. “We’ll be back down in a few minutes.”   
  
Henry was skulking in the corner of the elevator lobby when Emma walked in and he refused to meet her eyes as they moved up towards Ruby’s office. And she felt guilty all over again. Killian had asked her about it the night before, the very specific line between her on TV and her in the rest of her life and why she was so determined to make sure that line stayed in tact – no matter what.

She hadn’t really been able to answer him before – certain the truth was liable to scare him off.

Henry was _hers_ and only hers, had been since the day he’d been born and, deep down, Emma was nothing short of selfish and possessive and she didn’t really want to share. She didn’t want to use Henry as some sort of prop to up her ratings, but she especially didn’t want people to start pitying her for what they were – a single mom with a rap sheet and a 12-year-old kid who didn’t really know anything about his dad.

So Emma kept her life in compartments and made sure that her defenses were strongest around Henry. In the end, he was the only thing that mattered.

The elevator bell dinged and the doors slid open and Henry was practically half way down the hallway by the time Emma had even started moving. “Hey,” she shouted at his back. “Wait two seconds kid. The door’s going to be locked anyway.”  
  
Henry groaned and Emma jogged down the hallway, pulling a bobby pin out of her hair as she moved. She caught up with him a few seconds later, wrapping an arm around him like he hadn’t just been moping for an entire elevator ride and tugged him towards Ruby’s door.

“You ready to learn how to pick a lock?” Emma asked.

“What? You’re actually going to show me how to do it?”  
  
He’d been begging for years – ever since David had mentioned that Emma was pretty good at sneaking into the ice cream shop in Storybrooke when they were growing up – but she’d always put it off, trying to tread that _good mom_ road. Now, she just wanted to share something with her kid.

And she really was good at this.

Emma nodded, crouching in front of the door handle and holding up the bobby pin pinched between her fingers. “You don’t need a ton,” she said, sticking the device into the lock and straining her ears to hear the tell-tale click. “You just need to work the lines. So you push this in and try and get the lines to move up like it’s an actual key. It usually takes some finagling because it’s, obviously, not an actual key, but if you get it just right…”

She twisted her wrist quickly and the lock clicked open. Henry looked overjoyed. “That was awesome!” He sprinted into the office, pushing the door open quickly and Emma’s grin was starting to hurt the muscles in her face.

“Are you breaking and entering, Swan?”  
  
Emma nearly fell over. She put her hand down on the floor, trying to steady herself – still crouching in front of the doorframe – and looked up to find a very amused Killian Jones staring at her.  
  
He held his hand out, nodding towards it and it only took half a second for Emma to take it – the warmth of him radiating into her almost immediately. Killian tugged her up and Emma was only a few inches away from him, that now-familiar smirk on his face doing something very specific to her thought process.

Henry.

Henry was in the office.

“Killian?” he asked, walking back out with his textbook balanced in the crook of his elbow.

“Hey Henry,” Killian answered, not missing a beat and Emma wondered when she’d stop standing like an open-mouthed fool in the middle of the hallway. “What are you guys doing here?”

“He forgot a book at Granny’s last night,” Emma answered. Killian’s head snapped back towards hers and he raised his eyebrows at her, some sort of unspoken question Emma wasn’t positive she had an answer to – at least not with her son standing a few feet away.

“History,” Henry mumbled, drawing a laugh out of Killian.

“I take it that’s not your favorite?”  
  
“The worst.”   
  
“Getting him to do history homework is like pulling teeth,” Emma sighed. “He won’t even do it when M’s tells him to and she’s teaches at his school.”   
  
Killian and Henry stared at her for a moment, surprised at the information she’d just offered up without any sort of question or prompt. If Emma were being honest, she was just as surprised. But then Killian smiled at her and Henry moved closer to her side and it all almost felt _normal_.

“You know I majored in history,” Killian said, glancing back at Henry’s textbook.

“What?” He nodded, hand reaching back to tug on that piece of hair behind his ear. “I didn’t think they had majors at the Academy. Just taught you how to tie knots or something like that.”  
  
“Your understanding of the inner-workings of this nation’s military are sorely lacking, Swan.”   
  
“Wait, wait,” Henry cut in. “You were in the military too? Do you know how to shoot a gun?”   
  
“Henry!” Emma hissed.

“No, it’s alright, love,” Killian muttered and Henry’s eyes got wider at _that_. He looked back down at the 12-year-old next to him and smiled. “I do, but, more importantly, I also know just about every date in that book of yours. I could probably help you study – if that’s cool with your mom.”

God damnit.

God fucking damnit.

This was not fair.

He wasn’t supposed to be _this_ – smart and talented and so god damn attractive Emma wasn’t certain how he could possibly be real. But there he was, smiling at her kid and offering up time she was fairly positive he didn’t have and Emma’s phone suddenly felt very heavy again, the weight of his number practically dragging her back down to the floor.

“Can he mom? I’ve got this huge test next week.”  
  
Emma rolled her eyes, shaking her head. “These are the kinds of things you’re supposed to tell me,” she sighed.

“You’re busy.”  
  
“Not too busy to know about big tests next week.”   
  
“But maybe Killian could help.”

She wasn’t going to win – Emma knew it and the smile on Killian’s face proved he knew it too. This was supposed to be a five-minute trip. In and out of the office without any complications. And now her kid was setting up study dates with a guy she _maybe_ went on a date with the night before.

Emma needed to cook something.

“I’d be happy to, Swan,” Killian said softly, eyes meeting hers quickly.

“What about the new fall menu?”  
  
“Finished this morning, actually.”   
  
“Yeah?”

“With sweet potato skins as our brand-new featured appetizer.” Emma laughed, the sound of it shaking her body and pushing away any of the lingering nerves she had about this cocky, sure-of-himself Iron Chef.

“You are impossible,” she said softly.

Killian shrugged. “What do you say, Henry?” he asked. “Next week? We’ll get you an A, I promise.”  
  
“Is that cool, mom?” Henry asked, spinning to stare at her. Emma glanced at Killian over the top of Henry’s head, heart stuttering just a bit at the way he looked at her.

“Yeah, that’s cool,” she said. “We could maybe come by the restaurant?”  
  
She’d asked the question into the ground mostly, but pulled her head up once her lips had stopped moving to find Killian beaming at her. “That sounds good,” he said softly and Emma was positive the sound of his voice would play on loop in her head for the rest of the night. “When’s your test, Henry?”   
  
“Thursday.”   
  
“Tuesday work?”   
  
“Sure.”   
  
“You good with Tuesday, Swan?” Emma nodded. She had to do a promotional spot for the show – a brand-new fall themed commercial that she wasn’t entirely certain was necessary – but she’d be done by 5:30. Or she’d run out of the studio.

“Yeah, that’s cool,” she said. “Come on kid, we should get going. Make sure you relock Ruby’s door, ok?”  
Henry nodded, sprinting back towards the office to shut off the lights and lock the door – leaving Emma alone with Killian for all of five seconds.

“Thank you,” she said softly.   
  
“For?”   
  
“For offering to help him like that. You didn’t have to do that.”   
  
“I wanted to.”   
  
“You don’t even know him.”   
  
“I almost know you though,” Killian argued. “And, technically speaking, he’s kind of like some biological extension of you, right?” Emma nodded, nervous laughter bubbling out of her mouth. “So then, it’s really not a big deal.”  
  
“Won’t you have to cook? I mean it’s a restaurant right, you have to make the food?”   
  
“I’ve got a fairly intelligent staff, Swan. I think they can handle one night. I’ll make your food though.”   
  
Emma bit her lip – heartbeat betraying her completely at the statement. “Cheeseburgers?”

“Rol will be thrilled.”

“You never said what you were doing here,” Emma said, realization dawning on her quickly. “I thought you hated being here.”  
  
“I never said I hated it, just that I tried not to be here if I didn’t have to. And I had to. We were filming IC today.”   
  
“Yeah? What was your secret ingredient?”   
  
“Apples,” he groaned. “Some stupid fall theme that I think was probably Regina’s idea.” 

“Did you win?”

His eyes flashed up towards her, a slice of blue that was full of confidence and talent and something that Emma couldn’t quite place – almost like he _wanted_ to impress her. “Always, Swan.”   
  
She bit her lip again.

“Ready, mom?” Henry asked and Emma got the impression he spent a few extra moments in Ruby’s office on purpose. She loved that kid a ridiculous amount.

“Yeah,” she answered, wrapping her arm around Henry’s shoulder and tugging him against her side as she looked back up towards Killian.  
  
“We’ll see you later.”   
  
“Tuesday.”   
  
“And Friday too,” Henry added. “On TV at least.”   
  
“That too.”

He was grinning at her again when she walked by and Emma couldn’t stop biting her lip. David had been absolutely right – this was totally about a guy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys - I'm so sorry for the missed update on Friday. Real life is the absolute worst and exhausting and all that jazz. Anyway, I am still a mess after Sunday, so I'm just going to live in this happy food-filled world of banter and post-date flirting. 
> 
> As always, @laurnorder is the absolute greatest and just reads everything I write and she's a delight. That rhymed. I'm not changing it. Come flail with me on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	10. Chapter 10

“This could not possibly take longer.”  
  
“You are very impatient today, aren’t you?”

“No,” Killian corrected, glaring at Robin on the other side of the towncar Regina had rented them. “I am worried because I told you to figure out this warehouse thing two weeks ago and I’m only now getting to see the stupid thing and it’s taking a decade to get there.”  
  
“Come on,” Robin laughed. “It’s only been a year. At most.”  
  
“You’re an ass.”  
  
“And you need to stop worrying so much. Anyway, when exactly were you going to find time to get to Brooklyn in the last two weeks? You’ve been a little preoccupied.”  
  
“With what?”  
  
“Are you kidding me right now?”

Killian sank further down in the seat, head resting against the window and groaned. Robin laughed at him again.

He was right – of course. He barely had time to sleep, let alone trek out to Gowanus to see some warehouse that _maybe_ could be turned into a restaurant _if_ he won this stupid all-star thing. And beat Emma in the process.

Add in one new IC taping, promises to help Henry study for some sort of major history exam – which may have mostly been a way to try and impress Emma, although he found himself liking the kid the more he talked to him – getting the new fall menus printed and actually running the one restaurant he had already, and Killian was lucky if he slept for more than five hours in the last week.

And he couldn’t stop thinking about how he had to beat Emma.

And how much he didn’t want to.

“You ever going to tell me about your date?”

Killian pulled his head off the window – ignoring the sights of downtown Brooklyn outside the car – and turned to glare at his friend. “What?” he snapped.

Robin just smiled, raising his eyebrows and sitting up a bit straighter in the backseat of this car. “Your date,” he repeated. “The one you went on a few days ago. The one you kicked us out of The Jolly for. How was it?”  
  
“It wasn’t a date,” Killian answered quickly, sounding every part the 16-year-old arguing with his dad. “We had drinks. We talked. It wasn’t a date.”  
  
“You kiss her?”  
  
“Are you thirteen?”  
  
“No, but I am interested. And want to make sure your happy.”  
  
“I am,” Killian groaned. “It wasn’t a date.”  
  
“So no kiss?”  
  
“No kiss.”  
  
“That’s dumb. Did you say something stupid, is that why?  
  
“No! I didn’t say anything stupid. Well, not entirely, but that wasn’t why. It’s because it wasn’t a date.”  
  
“You wanted it to be though.”  
  
“Oh my God.”  
  
“C’mon, Killian, I’m not an idiot. You closed an hour early, you kicked us out, I think you terrified Ariel when you told her _she_ had to turn people away. You at least thought it was a date before she got there. So what happened?”  
  
What happened were walls and secrets and things neither of them was telling each other while still dancing around the idea that both of them seemed fairly interested in kissing the other. If there was one thing Killian was certain of, it was that – he wanted to kiss her and she wanted to kiss him and both of them were too scared and, possibly, too damaged to do anything about it.

It was a recipe for disaster.

“I’ve already told you what happened,” Killian sighed, leaning his head back against the top of the seat. “We talked. I made drinks. She went home.”  
  
“That’s stupid.”  
  
“Well don’t tell her that when she and Henry show up on Tuesday or you’ll just embarrass me.”

“Wait, who’s Henry? And what’s happening on Tuesday?”

“Henry is her son. We’re studying for a history test on Tuesday.”  
  
Killian enjoyed the look on Robin’s face far more than a he should – a mix between stunned and overjoyed and something bordering close to flabbergasted. He really shouldn’t have said anything, knew it wasn’t his place to try and brag about his _whatever_ relationship in front of his friend, but he was frustrated and exhausted and, mostly, he just wanted Robin to shut up.

“Who’s studying for a history test?” Robin asked.

He hadn’t shut up. Killian should have known better.

“Me and Henry,” he answered.

“And Emma will be where?”  
  
“Presumably somewhere in the restaurant.”  
  
Robin’s mouth hung open and Killian grinned at him as they pulled up to what appeared to be an abandoned building a few hundred feet away from the main road. The driver announced that they were _here_ – and that was something he’d never get used to at all.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Killian muttered, glaring at Robin again. Robin looked at him nonplussed, shrugging as he pushed open the car door and stepped outside. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, following Robin out onto the sidewalk.

Robin was talking to some other man by the time Killian got there and he heard something about _numbers_ and _the competition_ and did his best to bite back the groan forming in the back of his throat.

The other man turned towards him as his feet crunched on the gravel and the smile on his face almost looked genuine. Killian appreciated the effort.

“Mr. Jones,” the man said softly and his voice practically sent a chill down Killian’s spine. He took a few steps towards Killian, leaning on a cane that probably cost more than the rent on Killian and Liam’s first apartment, with his hand stuck out. It was his right hand. Killian rolled back on his heels for a moment, tension seizing between his shoulder blades and felt the man’s eyes dart down his brace.

“Killian is fine,” he said, sticking his right hand out. The man nodded quickly and tried to smile again, clasping Killian’s hand in the process.

“Robert Gold,” the man said, shaking Killian’s hand. His smile _almost_ made it all the way up to his eyes. “It’s so nice to meet you at least. Robin’s told me so much about you.”  
  
Yeah, except the fact that he probably shouldn’t use his right hand for introductions.

“It’s nice to meet you too,” Killian mumbled and knew his voice sounded almost as honest as the smile on Robert Gold’s face. “This is, uh, some building you’ve got here.”  
  
“I know it doesn’t like anything now,” Gold answered quickly. “But trust me, once we get construction under way, everything will be fantastic.”  
  
“And when do you think that will be? The construction getting underway?”  
  
“Depends on how quickly you can make the money move.”  
  
Robin coughed pointedly, taking a step back towards Killian – flanking him, as it were. Killian waved his hand behind him, calling off the guard quickly and stared at Gold. “How quickly would you like the money to move?”  
  
“You always answer questions with more questions?”  
  
“When it comes to my money and my restaurant, yes.”

Gold’s smile finally reached his eyes – they had, it seemed, found something they both understood. “If you can get us a half the deposit in the next two weeks and the rest by the end of October, we can start working next week.”  
  
“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”  
  
“They want The Jolly here,” Robin muttered from behind him and Killian glanced over his shoulder.

“Why?” Killian asked, staring at Gold with his arms crossed tightly over his chest. If he was going to win this competition and make this expansion happen and possibly threaten everything that _maybe_ could happen with Emma in the process, he needed an answer.

“Why what?”  
  
“Why are you doing this?”

Gold narrowed his eyes slightly and twisted his lips, like he was trying to come up with an answer. “Well you two signed a contract on the building already. So, technically speaking, I have to. But I’ve eaten at your restaurant too, you know.”  
  
“A lot of people have eaten at my restaurant.”  
  
“Killian,” Robin admonished and Killian ignored the very distinct _dad voice_ as soon as it reached his ears.

“No, no, it’s ok,” Gold said. “He’s right. A lot of people have eaten at his restaurant. But that’s my point. You should be a fucking franchise at this point, but if you’re focused on starting the expansion in the city then I want in.”  
  
“That doesn’t answer my question.”  
  
“You’re good at what you do,” Gold answered simply. “And I want in.”  
  
“You want in on what exactly?”  
  
“Success.”  
  
“That’s awfully broad.”

Gold shrugged. “Maybe, but I want it. I’m tired of coming in second place. I have been all my life and I’m done with it. So I spent, let's just say a fair amount of money, buying up these buildings across the city and these warehouses out here on the idea that this neighborhood was expanding or something and decided we were going to make Gowanus the new Williamsburg. I can’t do that, however, without The Jolly. And The Jolly doesn't happen without you. So I want you and your food and I’m willing to knock a substantial off the price to do it. As long as you win.”

“That’s the caveat then?” Killian asked, rocking back on his heels again.

“Yes..”  
  
“So what happens if I don’t?”  
  
“If you don’t win?”

Killian nodded. “The price goes back up. That’s why the official contract is missing this little part. It’s really up to you. Just keep in mind, you’re not quite as important if you don’t win,” Gold shrugged. “And, that’s the thing, I need you to be important. I need you to be _big_ and _successful_ and draw in other names. Understand where I’m going with this?”  
  
“I understand that you’re using me like some kind of pawn in your weird warehouse real estate game.”

“Consider this a gesture of good faith, Mr. Jones. We believe in what you can do out here and what you can do on TV. After all, aren’t you doing the same thing?”

Killian tilted his head in question, glancing at Robin quickly. His lips were pulled back behind his teeth and his hands were stuffed into his pockets – Gold was right. Mind games. They were still playing mind games.

It was more fun with Emma.

“Yeah,” Killian said, kicking one of the pebbles at his feet. “I suppose I am.”  
  
And maybe he was. He wanted to win. He wanted to expand the restaurant. He maybe, almost, didn’t even hate the warehouse – not that he’d immediately tell Robin or Gold that. But he also didn’t want to hurt anyone while he was trying to get what he wanted, least of all Emma.

No one said anything for a few moments, each of them staring at their respective shoes and trying to ignore the fact that it was starting to rain – that seemed oddly appropriate. “You think you could take us inside, Gold?” Robin asked. “Killian should probably see the inside of the building don’t you think?”  
  
“Yeah, of course,” Gold said quickly, turning on his heels towards the building’s front door. He started narrating immediately, but Killian was only half listening.

It was enormous – that much was obvious as soon as he walked in – more than double the size of The Jolly now and Killian silently worried they’d actually be able to fill up the dining room. Gold, however, had seemingly read his mind, glancing at him over his shoulder as Killian stared around the room.

“I don’t think you’ll have any problems with this,” Gold said confidently. “Once there’s tables in here, it won’t look quite as huge anyway.”  
  
“Plus a bar,” Robin added.

Killian nodded slowly, trying to picture it all. They could put the bar on the far wall – it was all windows anyway and there was _almost_ some view of the water, it could work there. “How many tables?” he asked.

“At least fifty,” Gold answered.

“Fifty?” They had twenty-eight in The Jolly right now. Killian gaped at Robin, eyes wide and the disbelief clearly written on his face.

“You could do that.”  
  
“Yuh huh.”

“They call it an expansion for a reason, Killian.”  
  
“And who’s cooking for all of those people?” he shot back, leaning against one of the columns in the middle of the room. He liked those. They should keep the columns.

“Well, I kind of figured you,” Robin said sarcastically. “At least for a little while. Then you were going to give it to Eric, weren’t you?”  
  
“What?” He was. He just hadn’t told anyone that.

Robin shrugged. “Just figured it made sense.”  
  
“It does.”  
  
“He can handle fifty eventually. And then you can stay with your small and whatever downtown.”

Killian ignored that, looking back at Gold who was smiling at them like he was winning some sort of unspoken competition. “What about the kitchen?”  
  
“Ah, the most important part, right?”  
  
“Yeah,” he said simply. He didn’t want to bond. He wanted to see what it would take to make a kitchen in this warehouse and then he wanted to see how the episode turned out on TV – they aired tonight and the nerves had been sitting in the back of Killian’s brain all day. That might have been why he was in such a bad mood.

He didn’t want to listen to Regina’s play-by-play – or her comments about him being strapped to Emma’s back.

Maybe he wouldn’t watch it.

“Well, it’s entirely up to you,” Gold said, nodding towards two doors on the side of the main room. “But the room on the right used to be some sort of office for the manager here and the room on the left used to be some sort of tiny break room. So I was thinking we’d be able to knock the wall down and make it one big room so you could have a sizeable kitchen.”  
  
“How big?”  
  
“Five-hundred square feet.”  
  
Killian nearly choked on air. “Five hundred? Jeez, everything’s enormous here isn’t it?”

Gold laughed softly and shrugged. “That’s what happens when you’re up and coming.”  
  
“Yeah and what’s five-hundred square feet of up and coming going to cost me?”  
  
“Nothing,” Gold said. “Not really. So long as you win. Heard you came up a little bit short on this first one tonight, but second’s not a bad starting spot. You win out, and maybe add a bit of face-time at Wine and Food next week, and you can consider the kitchen expansion just part of the deal.”  
  
“The deal?”  
  
“The one you signed already.”  
  
Killian took a deep breath and crossed his arms tightly, pressing the pads of his fingers into his right palm. “Wine and Food’s going to be busy,” he said. “I’ve got a whole slate of network stuff, plus the restaurant’s got a pop-up.”  
  
“So then I can presumably count on the deposit paid in full by October.”  
Gold’s smile reached his eyes again and Killian couldn’t quite believe the man in front of him. “Yeah,” he said stiffly. “You can.”  
  
“Then we’re all set here. We’ll start knocking down walls next week and, if you’ve got time between all your _other_ projects, you can come back down and see construction in November.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
Robin looked uncomfortable – hands still stuck in his pockets and a nervous energy practically radiating off him. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be easy – win the network thing, sell out of BBQ sauce again and expand the restaurant. Now it was _prove yourself_ – as if Killian didn’t do that every single day – and show off and beat Emma.

“Well, if that’s all the questions you’ve got,” Gold said brightly. “I’ve got another warehouse to show to a client in about ten.”  
  
“Yeah, we’re good,” Killian muttered, raising his eyebrows at Robin who just nodded.

Gold grinned at the two of them and stuck his left hand back out into the space in front of him. Killian stared at it for a beat before shaking it again and wondering what exactly he’d just gotten himself into.

* * *

“I can’t believe you made popcorn.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t think I’d make popcorn.”  
  
“I think popcorn is entirely unnecessary.”

“I know you do, that’s why I made it.”  
  
Emma groaned loudly, throwing her forearm over her eyes and sliding further into the corner of David and Mary Margaret’s couch. He’d made popcorn – _two_ bags of popcorn – for the premiere of the Food Network all-star edition of Cutthroat Kitchen and Emma was torn between being overwhelmed with support and frustrated because they’d somehow turned this into some kind of family event.

“Aren’t you excited?” Henry asked her, collapsing a few inches away as he stuffed a handful of popcorn into his mouth.

“Have I taught you nothing?” Emma asked, pulling her arm off her eyes to shoot her kid a very pointed look. “Chew and then talk.”  
  
Henry shrugged and David laughed loudly from the kitchen, holding two bowls of popcorn in his hands. He handed one to Henry who grabbed another handful and Emma rolled her eyes. “Well, are you?” Henry prompted, finally chewing the food before talking again.

“Am I what?”  
  
“Excited. I mean, you won.”  
  
She had. She had won. And she’d also been strapped to Killian Jones for an entire challenge and flirted with him throughout the other two and Emma wasn’t entirely positive she wanted her family to see that.

She hadn’t told David or Mary Margaret about running into Killian at the network earlier the week and she _certainly_ hadn’t told them about the plan to go to his restaurant on Tuesday – with Henry. Of course, it was all Henry had talked about.

Emma had made him promise he wouldn’t tell David and Mary Margaret. He’d asked why – of course he had – but she wasn’t sure she had an answer. Probably the same reason why Emma didn’t want Henry on her show.

Keep things compartmentalized and they wouldn't get messed up.

Or something like that.

“I did win,” Emma said, trying to grab a handful of popcorn without anyone noticing and failing miserably. “But I also hate watching myself on TV. You know that. You all know that.” She stared pointedly at her brother on the other side of Henry and he smiled innocently at her.

“I know nothing,” David said, smiling at her and wrapping his hand around the side of what appeared to be his very own popcorn bowl.

“Are you going to eat that entire bowl by yourself?” Emma asked, ignoring the sound of the TV behind her.

“He’s absolutely not,” Mary Margaret answered, dragging a chair from the kitchen into the living room. “And he’s also going to put caramel on it because I said so.”  
  
Emma and David both jumped up at the sight of her – and the chair – and Mary Margaret actually laughed at both of them, brushing them away quickly as she sank into the cushioned seat. “You two staging some sort of overprotective competition I don’t know about? See who can act the most ridiculous? Because at this point I can’t figure out who’s winning.”  
  
“David, obviously,” Emma mumbled and Henry chuckled behind her.  
  
“Yeah,” he agreed. “It’s definitely Uncle David.”  
  
“You guys are the worst,” David sighed, taking the bottle of caramel out of Mary Margaret’s hands and squeezing over the bowl of popcorn.

“That actually hurts my soul,” Emma sighed. “You know, if you were going to force this popcorn thing on us, I could have actually _made_ caramel corn. It would have been a lot better than whatever that nonsense is.”  
  
“This nonsense isn’t actually that bad,” Mary Margaret said, shrugging.

“That’s because you’re pregnant and you don’t know any better. Your taste buds are all out of whack. That can’t possibly be good.” Mary Margaret shrugged again, but smiled at Emma before glancing towards the TV screen and the Cutthroat Kitchen theme song.

“I didn’t know this show had a theme song,” Emma said softly, twisting the kernel of popcorn in between her thumb and pointer finger.

“You need to watch your own network’s shows more,” David answered, grinning at her over Henry’s head as he slung his arm over the almost-teenager’s shoulder.

“You sound like Ruby.”  
  
“Sometimes she knows what she’s talking about.”  
  
Emma rolled her eyes and tried to pay attention to the show, ignoring the fluttering in her stomach when she saw herself on screen.

It had always been like this.

She was sure there was some sort of deep-rooted, emotional reason for that, but Emma couldn’t ever quite shake the feeling that watching herself on TV was some sort of weird, out-of-body experience. And, she supposed, it kind of was.

“You look good, mom,” Henry said. “Confident.”  
  
“I literally just walked down the stairs.”  
  
“Yeah, but you didn’t fall.”  
  
“That is true.”  
  
She held her breath through the introductions – trying not to listen to the sound of her own voice-over – and bit her lip tightly when the camera panned to Emma standing behind her station, smile practically plastered on her face while she listened to Killian say something next to her. They’d been talking about not falling and getting ready for the game and Emma could feel the smile forming on her face _again_ as she watched it on the screen in front of her.

“What are you doing?” David asked.

“Hmmm?”  
  
“What are you doing?” he repeated. “You’re smiling like...I don’t even know what.”

“Nothing,” Emma said quickly and she was, just as quickly, met with three disbelieving faces. “Honestly.”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
“Mom,” Henry whined. “You gave Killian potato scraps? And you bid so much money! You weren’t supposed to jump up like that! We had a strategy.”  
  
“Heat of the moment,” Emma laughed, pulling him back against her side and away from David’s speculative glance. “Plus, don’t worry, he’ll pull through.”

“Spoilers!”  
  
“Just watch.”  
  
They did – aided by Henry’s regular stream of commentary and questions about how Killian did this and Killian did that and Emma tried not to be too worried by the look on David’s face. Mary Margaret, meanwhile, looked overjoyed.

And then, as they were going to sooner or later, they got to round two and the resistance band.

“You didn’t bid on this?” David asked. “This is the worst, Emma, how could you not bid on this?”  
  
“It wasn’t really that bad,” she mumbled, trying to avoid answering any more questions by eating more popcorn. David had made another bag. If there was one thing the Swan-Nolan clan was consistently good at, it was eating an exorbitant amount of food.

“Yeah, you look like you really hated it,” Mary Margaret said softly and Emma shot her a wide-eyed stare. She shrugged and poured more caramel on the popcorn.

Emma tried to melt into the couch, but the continued questions and comments from the twelve-year-old made that all but impossible. “Way to not trip over your own feet, mom,” Henry said, laughing softly as he bumped his arm against hers. “Or pull Killian down with you.”  
  
“Wait,” David said suddenly – head snapping to his right to stare at Emma and Henry. “You know him?”  
  
Henry lowered his eyebrows, head darting between mom and uncle and Emma tried to disappear again. They were untying them on screen now and Mary Margaret seemed very interested in the way Killian’s gaze lingered on Emma’s waist when they pulled the resistance band off her.

“Henry?” David asked again, suddenly much more interested in _this_ question than anything that Emma cooked on TV.

“Yeah.”  
  
“Yeah to what?”  
  
“Yeah to both of them.”  
  
“When?”  
  
“David,” Mary Margaret said softly, tearing her eyes away from the screen as the show cut to commercial. “Who gets cut?” she asked Emma quickly, voice rushing over the words.

“Belle.”  
  
“What’d you make at the end?”  
  
“Crepes,” Emma said, smiling. “Killian should have won. Tink just doesn’t like chocolate.”  
  
David pushed off the couch, nearly spilling the second bowl of popcorn he’d been sharing with Henry and started pacing behind the coffee table. “What’s the matter?” Henry asked, eyes moving towards Emma.

“I think Uncle David’s lost his mind.”  
  
“Uncle David has not lost his mind,” he said sharply, stopping abruptly in the middle of his living room. He crossed his arms tightly – threadbare cotton t-shirt that had, somehow, survived college and several hundred washes, bunching up tightly across his chest. “He’s just a bit confused as to what’s going on.”  
  
“Nothing is going on,” Emma said, sitting up a bit straighter as her defenses went up automatically. Henry was still staring at her and she put her hand on his knee like some sort of unspoken reassurance – for him or her, Emma wasn’t entirely sure.

“Is that the guy?” David asked.

“What guy?”  
  
“This Killian guy that Henry apparently knows. Is he the guy from before?”  
  
Emma tugged on the bottom of her hair before she could stop herself and David yelled triumphantly, pointing at her from his spot a few feet away and even bobbing on the balls of his feet for good measure.

“What’s he talking about, mom?” Henry asked, uncrossing his legs so Emma’s hand fell back on the couch cushion.

“Henry,” Mary Margaret cut in, glancing at Emma with an apology on her face. “You want to help me make some hot chocolate? Like right now?”  
  
Henry looked back at Emma, who tried to smile encouragingly at her kid, but her eyes kept darting to her brother – arms still crossed and that absolutely infuriating know-it-all look on his face. “Sure M&M’s,” he said, putting his hand on Emma’s knee before he got up and that did something to her emotions that she certainly did need at the moment. “You want cinnamon in yours, mom?”  
  
“Always,” Emma nodded. “Thanks kid.”  
  
“Always.”  
  
Emma waited five seconds before she looked back at David and he still hadn’t wiped that look off his face. “What?” she spit out. “What is your problem?”

“I don’t have a problem,” David countered, one side of his mouth pulling up. “But you have secrets and, somehow, I think that’s worse.”  
  
“Because you act like this.”

“What am I acting like?”  
  
“An overprotective brother who should probably consider backing off.”  
  
“Is that who you were with on Monday night? After you ran out of Granny’s?”  
  
Emma nodded. “And I didn’t run.”  
  
“You hastened. At least.” David sighed and sank back onto the couch next to her, finally moving the bowl of popcorn out of the way. “What do you know about this guy?”  
  
“Honestly?” David nodded. “Not much. He owns a restaurant three blocks away from my apartment and he’s an absurdly good chef with one brother, a tattoo with a woman’s name on it that he won’t talk about and, uh, one hand.”  
  
“One hand?”  
  
“One hand.”  
  
“And he can cook that well?”  
  
“Right?”

“Wait, back up, a woman’s name tattooed on him?”

“Yeah. He doesn’t like to talk about it.”  
  
“You asked?”  
  
“I know, crazy,” Emma laughed. “I was curious.”  
  
David’s mouth dropped open and he let out a soft _ahhh_ like he’d suddenly figured out the theory of relativity. “So, that’s it.”  
  
“What’s it?”  
  
“You’re curious. And attracted to him. When you introduce him to Henry? That’s the one part I can’t figure out.”  
  
“And you think you know me so well, huh?” Emma mumbled, knowing it was an empty threat or question or _whatever_. He did. And he knew it.

David grinned at her. “When did he meet Henry?”  
  
“Accidentally. The day we filmed all the promotional stuff. M’s brought Henry to the studio and Killian was there and we were doing dishes and it just sort of happened.”  
  
“Don’t they have someone who does dishes for you?”  
  
“I like doing them.”  
  
“You’re a control freak, you know that.”  
  
“That’s why I didn’t want to tell you about this.”  
  
“Don’t do that Emma,” David sighed and she felt his hand on the back of her head again, an awkward side-to-side hug that still managed to feel comforting. “You can tell me stuff. Anything. Everything. You know that.”  
  
“I do,” she said softly. But she still didn’t tell him about Tuesday – sometimes the walls were too high for even Emma to try and scale.

“You going to go out with him again?”

“‘I’m not sure that’s what it was to begin with.”  
  
“Nuh uh,” David laughed. “You guys made eyes at each other the entire time you were on screen together and when you weren’t staring longingly at each other, you were _actually_ flirting with each other. It was a date.”  
  
Emma rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t stop smiling and she knew David had won. “Can we watch the final round still?” Henry asked, walking back into the room with two cups of hot chocolate in his hand. He handed one to Emma and raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“But you know what happened,” Emma said, ignoring David’s absurd movements as Mary Margaret came around the corner of the kitchen.

“I still like watching you. It’s pretty cool.” Emma bit her lip tightly and hugged him closer, wrapping both arms around him and smiling at the sound of his frustrated groans at this very intense display of emotion. “You’re going to squeeze all my organs.”  
  
“How do you know about organs?”  
  
“I’m twelve, mom, I’m not stupid.”  
  
“Ah, of course.”  
  
“So, can we watch it?”  
  
“I do buy a really good sabotage in the third round.”  
  
Henry’s eyes lit up and he nodded quickly. “You’ve got to rewind Uncle David,” he said. “We’ve got to watch the rest of the show.”  
David and Mary Margaret were beaming as he leaned forward to grab the remote, rewinding back through the third round and tossing a handful of popcorn at Emma as all four of them watched her bid on the Lazy susan.

Two hours, another round of hot chocolate and several handfuls of self-made, not-so-bad caramel corn later, Emma and Henry were walking back into their apartment and she was positive he hadn’t stopped talking the entire walk home.

If she thought she’d impressed him with her lock-picking skills earlier in the week it was, apparently, nothing compared to her ability to cook and sabotage with a dozen cameras and studio lights in her face.

“You did really, really good, mom,” Henry said, voice mumbled with exhaustion as he stumbled down the hallway.

“Thanks kid,” Emma answered, directing him towards his room, shoulder squeezing his shoulder slightly as he moved. She didn’t say that it was for him – it had always all been for him – but Emma got the feeling he might know.

He was, after all, twelve, not stupid.

Henry fell asleep in moments and, suddenly, Emma was left alone with thoughts and emotions and David’s voice ringing in her ears about her next date. She paced the small amount of floor in her room and held her phone in her hand, weighing her options.

God, she was nervous. Or terrified. She might have been terrified.

Emma squeezed her eyes shut tightly and breathed in slowly, swiping her thumb across the screen and hitting the number in her phone in one quick movement before she could come up with half a dozen reasons why she _shouldn’t_ do this – or half a dozen reasons why she absolutely should.

It rang twice before he answered.

“Hello?”  
  
She smiled softly, teeth tugging on her lip as she sank onto the edge of her mattress. “Hey, it’s Emma.”

* * *

Killian rubbed his hands on the front of his jacket, ignoring the stains he was leaving behind and tried not to think about everything he still had left to do. Maybe he should start making lists. He squeezed his eyes closed, scrunching every muscle in his face as he walked back into the kitchen – it looked like a disaster zone.

A flash of red stood out in the corner, trying to organize a shelf of spice and the smile on Killian’s face felt like a betrayal to the frustration that had lingered in his head long after he and Robin had walked away from Gold earlier that afternoon.

It was fine – Robin had told him that _several_ times on the car ride back into Manhattan – but Killian couldn’t shake the idea that something was wrong with this guy and, by extension, something was wrong with the expansion.

Gold’s smile made something shoot down the back of Killian’s spine and he still wasn’t sure how they’d operate two restaurants with a combined seventy-eight tables.

There just weren’t enough hours in the day.

But he’d signed his name anyway, said he’d win and come back in three weeks to see the first few days of construction. He’d fucked up – he was positive.

Something fell off the shelf and Ariel muttered a few very choice words that Killian wasn’t certain he’d ever heard come out of her mouth. He stepped further into the kitchen, trying to navigate across the spaces of the floor that weren’t covered in flour.

He stress baked.

Always had.

And, today, he had made more cookies than he knew what to do with. They had to make it a _dessert special_ , there were so many of them.

He’d been so focused on baking and cooking and desserts specials that Killian almost forgot that Cutthroat Kitchen was slated to air that night. He made it a point to never watch himself on TV – something that drove Regina absolutely mad – but he had to admit he was a bit interested in this one. If only to see how much flirting the camera had picked up.

Killian made it to the back corner of the kitchen, to find Ariel crouched on the floor, trying to push the spilled spice – it smelled like tarragon – into a small pile with her hands. “Ari,” he said softly and she jumped at the sound of his voice. Killian crouched down next to her, pulling her hand away from the mess and looking at her with raised eyebrows. “What are you doing?”  
  
“I’m trying to clean up whatever this is.”  
  
“Tarragon.”  
  
“I don’t care.”  
  
Killian laughed and wrapped his fingers around hers, tugging her back up. Ariel grumbled slightly, but let him move her and she looked as frustrated as he’d felt all day. “Why are you still here?” He pulled his phone out of his back pocket, glancing at the screen – it was almost 11:30. “Where’s Eric?”  
  
“I think he’s in the walk-in, getting stuff out for tomorrow.”  
  
“Didn’t answer my first question.”  
  
“I was trying to clean up.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because you barely said two words to anyone this afternoon, just walked back in and made six dozen cookies.”  
  
“Seven,” Killian corrected quickly and Ariel’s eyes flashed dangerously at him. “I made seven dozen cookies.”  
  
“You realize that’s insane?”  
  
“I do.” Ariel clearly hadn’t been expecting that answer. She snapped her mouth shut and stared at him, narrowing her eyes and brushing her hands on the side of his jacket quickly. “What even, Ari?”  
  
“It’s covered in stains already,” she said, dragging her fingers over a space of white just above his hip. “This about _the woman_ ?”  
  
Killian rolled his eyes. “No,” he answered quickly. “It’s not. And she’s got a name you.”  
  
“Emma Swan,” Ariel replied dutifully, nodding. He tried not to roll his eyes again. “Sounds like something out of a fairy tale. So if it’s not about Emma, what’s it about? The expansion?”

“Does everyone just sit in this restaurant and gossip when I’m not here?”  
  
“You’re not very good at hiding what you’re thinking. Should probably consider not having so many very obvious tells. Seven dozen cookies is kind of like some sort of flashing neon sign.”

“They were good though, right?”  
  
“Of course they were good,” Ariel sighed, grabbing one from the corner of the counter in front of her and snapping it in half. She handed a piece to Killian who, suddenly, remembered he hadn’t actually eaten dinner yet. The cookies weren’t bad though and that seemed like some sort of plus.  
“So what’s really going on?”  
  
“Nothing,” Killian said quickly, trying to talk while also eating half a cookie.

“Liar.”  
  
“I’m serious,” he sighed, brushing the crumbs off the tips of his fingers. Ariel looked unconvinced and maybe he did have to stop being so obvious. He also needed to stop feeling guilty about the expansion.

It was fine. Right? It was totally fine.

He didn’t know Emma that well. He couldn’t base his entire life around one maybe-date and an almost-kiss and her coming to the restaurant on Tuesday – with her son. None of that meant anything. He couldn’t walk away from the next big step in his career because of any of that – despite whatever voice in the back of his head told him he _should_ do.

Fuck.

Ariel groaned, but she didn’t have a chance to properly glare at Killian before Eric walked back into the kitchen, arms weighed down with what appeared to be several pounds of meat. “Steak,” he said. “Why would you order so much steak?”  
  
Killian shrugged. “We’ll use it?”  
  
“We kind of have to.”  
  
Eric shook his head and, somehow, managed to swing the refrigerator door open, piling the meat inside. “Is this like the mozzarella and cookie thing?”

“What?”  
  
“The mozzarella and cookie thing. Ordering too much because you’ve got twenty different things on your mind and then stress-baking so you forget those twenty different things?”  
  
Killian made some sort of noise in the back of his throat, squeezing his eyes tightly again – he could feel the headache forming in between his eyes and he pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “Seems like a yes,” Ariel muttered.

“Seems like I’ve got an insubordinate staff,” Killian added, not opening his eyes.

“Uh oh, he’s breaking out the Navy words.”

That got him to open his eyes. “Out,” he ordered, pointing a finger towards the door that led back to the dining room.

“Aww, c’mon, you know I’m mostly kidding.”  
  
“Out. You’ve both done enough today. It’s late, you’re tired and I’ve got stuff to do here. You’ll only be in the way.”  
  
Ariel crossed her arms and tilted her hips slightly when she stared at him, meeting his eyes without wavering an inch. He almost apologized – almost told them about the expansion and Gold and the deal and _Emma_ , but Killian had always been good at alone, particularly when he was frustrated.  
And he was frustrated – straight to the core.

“Fine,” Ariel muttered softly, reaching forward to grab two more cookies off the counter. “Make sure you watch the show later or Regina will kill you.”  
  
Killian’s shoulders sagged slightly when she spoke and he felt the frustration ebb slightly at the concerned tone of her voice and the way her eyes landed on him with something that almost resembled concern. “I will,” he said. “Thanks.”  
  
Ariel nodded once, fingers lacing with Eric’s as they walked out of the kitchen and Killian thought he heard his sous chef ask why she _smelled like tarragon_ as the door swung on its hinges behind them.

He rubbed his hand across his face, fingers pushing against his eyelids softly like he was trying to will the headache to go away before it could get any worse. God, there was flour everywhere. Killian was a bit of a perfectionist when he cooked – something he was positive he’d picked up in the Navy – but baking was a different story.  
  
It was emotional and stressful and a mess.

He stared at his kitchen, trying to decide what to tackle first and if he should maybe just do it in the morning when he didn’t feel _quite_ so dead on his feet when his phone rang loudly, still sitting on a flour-less section of the counter.

It wasn’t a number he’d seen before and Killian’s eyebrows drew together as he answered. “Hello?”  
  
“Hey, it’s Emma.” He nearly dropped the phone. He also didn’t say anything, mouth hanging open in the middle of his kitchen. “Killian?” she asked and her voice had lost the confidence she’d started the conversation with. “Still there?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, I’m here.”  
  
“Sorry, is this a bad time?”  
  
“No,” he said quickly, eyes darting around the room as he leaned against the edge of the counter. “I was just, uh, my kitchen’s a mess.”  
  
“What?” she laughed and he thought he heard a mattress creak softly in the background. She was home. She’d called him from home and, if his hearing was alright, from her room. He tried not to linger on that thought for too long. “How did that happen?”

“I stress bake?”  
  
“Was that a question?”  
  
“No,” he said, scoffing softly under his breath. “Well, it was, but more of a question as a reason. I made a fairly ridiculous number of cookies today.”  
  
“How many is ridiculous?”  
  
“Seven dozen.”  
  
“Jeez.”  
  
Killian shrugged, fully aware that no one could actually see the movement, and hummed in the back of his throat. “It’s a thing,” he said, like that was some sort of explanation. “My hostess claims it’s a tell.”  
  
“Ah, yeah, you have those.”  
  
“What?”  
  
She laughed again and Killian ran his hand through his hair, smile inching along his face slowly as he tried to picture her in front of him – green eyes and blonde ponytail and that smile that seemed to cut straight to the center of him.

He was a lost cause.

“You do,” Emma continued, voice still tinged with laughter. “The hair thing, for sure. But I’m glad I know about stress baking now too.”  
Killian’s mouth was hanging open still as he sank to the floor of the kitchen, head tilting back against the edge of the counter. He wasn’t sure how she’d figured him out so quickly, but he thought it might be the best thing that had ever happened to him.

“You do too, you know,” he said, leaning the phone against his shoulder.  
  
“That so?”  
  
“Yuh huh. You push your hair off your shoulders. Or play the ends of it.”  
  
“Are you stalking me?”  
  
“No, Swan,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m not.”  
  
She took a deep breath and he heard the mattress creak again as she moved. He wondered, for a moment, if that was _too much_ or pushing or something else, but then Emma laughed softly again and that small bubble of nerves in the pit of his stomach seemed to pop.

“What did you say it was?” she asked. “An open book?”  
  
“Seems to work both ways.”  
  
“Seems like it.”  
  
They didn’t say anything for what felt like several days, but it was the most comfortable silence Killian had ever encountered and he was sure there was some sort of deeper, emotional meaning behind that, but he refused to even consider the implications. He couldn’t deal with something else – not when it might be the most important thing on the list he absolutely wasn’t making.

“I kind of want a cookie now,” Emma said softly and Killian’s whole body shook with laughter.  
  
“Afraid there won’t be many left by Tuesday.”  
  
She clicked her tongue and Killian was beaming like an idiot, alone on the floor of his kitchen. “Shame. I’m not much of a baker.”  
  
“You shouldn’t give away trade secrets like that, love. Now I know you’re not much of a Cupcake Wars threat.”

He was positive he’d never heard Emma laugh as much as she had in the last five minutes and Killian tried not to let his ego inflate too much at the idea that _he_ was doing that. He also tried not to remember that she was only three blocks away. In her room. And she’d called him.

“Speaking of which,” Emma said, distracting him from _that_ train of thought, “did you watch the episode tonight?”  
  
“I didn’t. I don’t usually like watching myself on TV, actually.”  
  
“Yeah, me either.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“You can list off several different tells for when I’m feeling _something_ , but you find it hard to believe that I don’t like watching myself on TV?”

“I just figured Henry…”  
  
“That’s true,” Emma interrupted. “Which is why I couldn’t get out of tonight’s family viewing party and popcorn feast.”  
  
“A popcorn feast?”  
  
“Mary Margaret tried to make homemade caramel corn and it nearly broke my heart, but, yes, a popcorn feast.”  
  
“Don’t tell me she just poured a bottle of caramel syrup on the popcorn?”  
  
“That is exactly what she did.”  
  
Killian shuddered, groaning at the idea. “How did you survive, Swan?”  
  
“Barely.”  
  
“I can imagine,” he laughed, pulling one leg up to rest his elbow on his knee. “How’d it go though? The episode? Not the popcorn feast.”  
  
“It was good. We were...we were good.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah,” she said confidently. “Henry particularly enjoyed the sabotages you had to deal with. He called the lazy susan, and I quote, ‘the worst thing he’s ever seen.’”

“It wasn’t exactly the most fun I’ve had cooking, trying to use that thing. You played the game well, love. I just got cheap at the end.”  
  
And he’d been far too distracted with the way she’d fit against him during the second round, but that wasn’t important to the conversation. At least the current one. Killian didn’t want to push. She’d called _him_.

“Nah, you probably should have won. Your crepe was ten times better. It’s not your fault Tink didn’t like an absurd amount of chocolate.”

“Well, next time you judge a cooking competition, I’ll keep that in mind.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
He had a million questions on the tip of his tongue – why she’d called and what this meant and if she’d let him make her every chocolate recipe he could find if it got her to keep laughing – but Killian waited, fingers wrapping around the case of his phone.

“You know I stress cook too,” Emma said suddenly.

“What?”  
  
“I make french toast.”  
  
“French toast? When you’re stressed?”  
  
“Mmmhm.” And he could practically hear her nodding against the phone. “It’s Henry’s favorite. And it usually works a compliment out of him in the morning, which is totally bordering on selfish-mom territory, but it’s a thing. Has been since he could chew solid foods.”  
  
Killian’s cheeks hurt with how hard he was smiling – images of a toddling Henry and Emma in the kitchen, making french toast and smiling and laughing flashing in front of his eyes. And he wanted all over again.

He wanted her all over again.

“That’s not selfish, Swan,” he said softly. “We sold the cookies I made this afternoon. You make french toast for your son. There’s a distinct difference in our stress-cooking techniques.”  
  
“How many did you sell?” she asked, the interest obvious in her voice. And that did something to how much he _wanted_ again. He should tell her about the expansion and Gold and the deal – explain it all now and then, maybe, tell her he was positive she’d shifted everything in his entire life in the span of a few weeks.

But that probably started creeping close to _pushing_ , so Killian bit back everything he wanted and answered her question. “Five and a half dozen.”  
  
“That’s a lot.”  
  
“It’s not all of them.”  
  
“Still impressive.”

“Another compliment, Swan.”  
  
“Are you keeping track?”  
  
“Maybe.”  
  
She let out a skeptical laugh and it sounded like she’d thrown half a dozen pillows on the floor as the bed creaked again. “Maybe you could bake again soon. You know, not stress-induced baking, but like just normal baking.”  
  
“Are you trying to get me to bake for _you_ , Swan?”  
  
“Maybe.”

“Tell you what, when you’re here on Tuesday there’ll be some sort of chocolate-filled dessert on the menu. That work?”  
  
“I don’t want you to have to do anything extra.”  
  
“You’re not.”  
  
“But you’ve got Henry to deal with and I mean, you have to run your restaurant, it seems like a lot,” she said, rushing over the words quickly.

“And neither one of those things would stop me from cooking. Or baking. Let me make you something, Swan.”  
Her breath caught audibly in her throat and Killian wasn’t even positive he was still breathing either. “Yeah, ok,” she said softly.

“Good.”  
  
“I should probably go...it’s late.”  
  
He had no idea what time it was, the phone propped up against his ear his only time source. He didn’t care. “Yeah,” Killian agreed. “My restaurant’s a mess.”  
  
“From the stress baking? I’m so sorry. You should have said, you didn’t have to listen to me talk.”  
  
“Swan, stop,” he said quickly. “This was nice.”  
  
“It was.”  
  
“The restaurant could wait.” Killian tried not to let _that_ sentence sink into his subconscious, but the words seemed engraved on his mind now – like some sort of weird, cosmic message about what he should do. Ariel had been right, it was absolutely about Emma.

“I’ll see you on Tuesday?”  
  
“With baked goods in hand.”  
  
Emma laughed again and, for a moment, he forgot about everything else except the way the sound seemed to settle around him. “That sounds nice. Goodnight, Killian.”

“Goodnight, Swan.”  
  
She hung up and Killian, finally, pulled the phone away from his ear – after midnight. He couldn’t bring himself to be frustrated by it – a strange change of pace after the day he’d had – just grabbed the broom from the corner of the kitchen and started sweeping up the flour-tarragon mess around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't quite realize how long this was until I posted it, so this is super long. As per usual. Also, this wasn't supposed to time up with actual update dates, but I'll take fate where I can find it. 
> 
> As always, @laurnorder is the absolute best and I don't know what these words would do without her. Come flail with me on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	11. Chapter 11

It was Tuesday. 

And Emma was a mix of jumbled nerves and hopeful anxiety and, for good measure, a bit of exhaustion. 

“I’ve got Sunday’s numbers,” Ruby said after they’d finished filming that week’s episode of  _ The Kitchen _ . Emma glanced up, rubbing her hands quickly on the front of her jeans and trying to ignore the jump in her stomach.  
  
“Relax,” her producer said quickly, eyeing Emma’s face as she hopped onto the counter. “They’re good.”   
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“Like better than we’ve had in weeks.”

“Really?” Emma asked, jumping up onto the counter as well and peering at the small pile of papers in Ruby’s hands. 

“Really. They were good, Em. So good that Zelena wanted to talk about them this afternoon.”   
  
“And you didn’t tell me that before we filmed?”   
  
“It would have thrown you off your game.”   
  
Emma groaned, but didn’t say anything – Ruby was right. It would have. Better to be blissfully unaware of the numbers and cook something delicious than be worried about the numbers and have to run through her script several times because she couldn’t hit her markers. “So what happens now?”

“You stay focused, you keep winning and we get back our time slot.”   
  
“Just like that?”   
  
“Is that not enough?” Ruby twisted her body to stare at Emma questioningly, heel tapping on the front of the kitchen island out of habit.

“No, sure it is.”   
  
“And you’re just as focused as ever?”   
  
“Of course.” Ruby made a noise in the back of her throat. “What?”   
  
“Then why did Henry tell me that you’re going to Killian Jones’ restaurant for dinner tonight?” Emma sighed and rolled her head towards the ceiling, leaning back on her palms. “Just be glad he didn’t tell David,” Ruby continued, the smile on her face only looking slightly amused. “He’d probably try and have Killian arrested or something.”   
  
“He’s not a bad guy.”   
  
“David or Killian?”   
  
“Both of them.”   
  
“And you know Killian’s not a bad guy, how?”   
  
“Why are you so worried about this?”   
  
“Because you  _ never _ let Henry into this side of things. Ever. And I have begged, Emma. For literally years. Sometimes I think the only reason you even let me talk to Henry is because he’s obsessed with Granny’s onion rings.”   
  
“That’s not true and you know it,” Emma argued, bumping her knee into Ruby’s. 

“It’s at least partially true. But that’s not my point. My point is that you’ve let him walk right into every corner of your life and that is so unlike you, I’m a bit nervous we’re dealing with some sort of body-snatchers subplot here.”   
  
Emma scoffed and shook her head, kicking her feet out in front of her. She rubbed her hands on her jeans again – suddenly a bit clammy with the way this conversation was heading – and stared at the studio floor. “It’s easy,” she said softly. 

“What is?”   
  
“It was easy to let him in. He just...kind of fit. And Henry’s so excited to go to the restaurant tonight. It was all he talked about the entire weekend. He’s easy to talk to and he’s nice to Henry and…”   
  
“And you might already be in love with him.”   
  
“No,” Emma cried quickly, sliding off the counter to cross her arms tightly and glare at Ruby. Her producer looked unconvinced. “I’m not! We’re friends.”   
  
“Sure. Friends who want to make out with each other. C’mon Emma, I watched the episode too.”

Emma pressed her lips together tightly and twisted her mouth into a grimace, trying to come up with a way to make her argument sound even remotely legitimate. She did want and she shouldn’t. 

They hadn’t talked since she’d called him on Friday night and while Emma was positive that was most likely because it was the weekend and he was swamped at the restaurant, she also realized she wanted a lot more than she probably should out of this  _ whatever _ . And he never called it a date. 

Friends. They could be friends. They could talk and be friends. Emma needed a few more friends. She certainly didn’t need a relationship. 

She had a show to save. 

“It’s not like that,” Emma mumbled and Ruby’s eyes widened. 

“Of course it’s not.”  
  
“Hey, can I ask you a question though?” Ruby nodded, sitting up a bit straighter at the tone of Emma’s night. “Do you know how he lost his hand?”   
  
Her eyes were as wide as saucers now. “No,” Ruby answered, lower lip sticking out thoughtfully. “I don’t know that many people do. I mean, probably Regina, but it’s not something anyone’s broadcasting, you know what I mean?”

“I think it had something to do with the Navy. And his brother.”   
  
“What are you talking about?”   
  
Emma wasn’t sure when she’s started pacing, but she stopped suddenly, looking up at Ruby who was grinning at her like she’d actually gotten the timeslot back. “Killian was in the Navy,” Emma said slowly. “So was his brother.”   
  
“Was?”   
  
“Yuh huh.”   
  
“And you talked about this…”   
  
“When I went to his restaurant last week.”   
  
Ruby groaned loudly, rolling her head back so far Emma was concerned she was actually going to fall back on the counter. “After I told you I was worried about you?”   
  
“That night, actually.”   
  
“Jeez, were you ever going to tell me?”   
  
“Not if this was the reaction I was going to get.”

“How was the restaurant?”   
  
“What?”

Ruby sat back up straighter and stared at Emma like she hadn’t previously told her to  _ leave Killian Jones alone _ a week before. “His restaurant? Was it good?”   
  
“I didn’t eat. He made drinks.”   
  
“So you went on a date.”   
  
“No one is calling it that.”   
  
“I am.”

“Don’t.”   
  
“So, what happened? You had drinks and talked about long lost brothers and the Navy?” Emma nodded. “Did you tell him about Neal?”   
  
“Ruby! Why would I do that?” 

“If he’s sharing emotional backstories...I just figured…”   
  
“No,” Emma snapped, cutting her off quickly. “Nothing about Neal. Not now or ever. Because friends don’t talk about criminal exes and the fathers of their children.”   
  
“That’s exactly what friends talk about. You  _ wouldn’t _ talk about that, however, if you were trying to make out with him.”   
  
“You are impossible, you know that.”   
  
Ruby shrugged. “Endearing. I am endearing.”   
  
“How did this even come up anyway? When you and Henry were talking?”   
  
“Oh,” Ruby laughed. “I asked if he’d been studying for his great, big history exam later this week and he told me that Killian offered to help and you guys were going to the restaurant later tonight. I’m a little hurt he didn’t ask me to help study, but, you know, whatever.”   
  
“Did everyone know about this test except for me?”   
  
“You’re busy.”   
  
Emma rolled her eyes and Ruby grinned at her, doing her best to look supportive from her spot on the kitchen counter. She tried not to think about making out with with Killian Jones – or how she absolutely didn’t want him to know about Neal Cassidy. 

Once upon a time, Emma believed in all of it – or almost all of it. She’d always been protective of her heart, determined to lock up her emotions a bit so she couldn’t get hurt, but then she’d moved in with the Nolans and Mary Margaret was determined to be her friend and Emma realized maybe  _ some _ people didn’t walk away. 

And then Neal Cassidy had shown up in Storybrooke and Emma, suddenly, believed in everything else – love and happiness and the possibility of the future. 

He’d made her believe she was special and important and David  _ hated _ him and Mary Margaret warned her that maybe Neal wasn’t the best influence in the world – telling tales of a juvenile record and breaking into the clock tower the first week he was in town. 

Emma didn’t care. He told her she was beautiful and that he loved her and promised to get her out of that tiny town where nothing ever happened. 

And he did – just not in the way Emma ever expected. 

It started small, a thrill when they stopped at convenience stores just outside the town lines, stealing bags of pretzels and beer and eating them in the backseat of Neal’s car. But then he got the job and he told Emma and made her promise she wouldn’t talk about it ever again. 

She didn’t actually steal the watches – didn’t even see them until he left them with her so she could hand them over to  _ his guy _ at the New Hampshire border. Neal promised to meet her back home, but it had all been a setup. He never came back to Storybrooke, never even set up a guy at the New Hampshire border. Emma got out of her car with the case of watches in her hands and found herself face-to-face with half a dozen police officers telling her Neal had  _ given her up, part of a plea deal _ and was gone. 

She got eight months – a lack of a record helping her cause and Mary Margaret’s dad offering up his tiny Storybrooke law firm pro bono – but a few weeks in, she’d thrown up and it didn’t even take the tiny stick in her hand to know what was wrong. 

Neal never came back. Emma had tried to find him after Henry was born, felt he at least deserved to know he had a son, but she never figured out where he went. And he’d never tried to find her – even when her face was plastered on the side of buses across New York City. 

It was a depressing story – one Emma didn’t like lingering on for too long, let alone tell Killian Jones. Because, despite her assurances otherwise, she might want to make out with him. A lot. 

And she hadn’t felt that way in a very long time. 

“I shouldn’t be too busy for my own kid though,” Emma said softly, realizing she hadn’t actually responded to Ruby in several minutes. 

“He understands.”   
  
“He shouldn’t have to.”   
  
“Emma,” Ruby sighed. “No one is more proud of what you’re doing than Henry is. He knows you’ve got to work and he’s not taking it as a personal insult to him. In fact, I’m pretty positive he brags about you nonstop at school.”   
  
“Really?”   
  
“If him bragging about you to me is any indication, then, yes, absolutely. Non-stop probably.”   
  
Emma scuffed her sneaker along the floor, wondering how she’d managed to get so lucky when she was fairly positive she didn’t deserve it. She managed to get the perfect kid out of the least perfect situation. 

“Go home,” Ruby continued. “Get ready for tonight and wear something nice. Make friends or something.”

“You’re good with this now?”   
  
“Henry was thrilled. And he’s the best judge of character I know. If he likes Killian and you like Killian, then who am I to oppose this friendship?”   
  
“That’s what it is.”   
  
“Sure it is.”   
  
Emma rolled her eyes again, but smiled at Ruby, the latest show numbers gripped tightly in her hands still. “And let me know how it goes this time, huh?” Ruby asked, finally jumping down onto the floor. “I’m an old relationship-er now. I’ve got to get some fresh gossip.”   
  
“You’re not an old anything,” Emma argued. “And it’s not a relationship.”   
  
“Right,” Ruby said, walking towards the studio door and shooting that same, wolfish smile at Emma. “Keep telling yourself that.”’

* * *

The Jolly Roger was packed.

He’d told her it would be, but Emma wasn’t quite prepared to see every single table filled and the short line waiting just inside the front door. A woman was standing behind a small podium, doing her best to direct the traffic and looking only vaguely stressed out by the number of people around her. She glanced up when she heard Emma and Henry in front of her and it was like she’d seen something she’d been waiting all night for. 

“You’re Emma,” she said without preamble, grinning broadly and brushing off a man who was complaining about his seven o’clock reservation. “Just give me two seconds,” the redhead muttered, glancing back up at Emma. She nodded quickly, not quite sure what she was waiting for, but tugging Henry closer to her side like some sort of physical support system. 

The hostess took care of the reservation, promising free drinks for having to wait an extra five minutes and she rolled her eyes once before meeting Emma’s gaze again. “I really hope you actually are Emma,” she said, smiling. “Or this is, officially, the worst night ever."  
  
“I really am,” Emma answered. “And you’re the hostess who knows about Killian’s stress baking?”   
  
“Guilty as charged,” she beamed, stepping towards Emma and hugging her tightly. Emma hadn’t been entirely prepared for that. Henry laughed at her response and thrust his hand out towards the woman once she’d pulled away from Emma.

“I’m Henry,” he said and Emma squeezed his shoulder tightly. 

“Ariel,” the woman answered. “Hostess and, unofficial Killian Jones stress-monitor.”   
  
“Unofficial?” Henry asked. 

“He doesn’t like being taken care of.”

Henry hummed in agreement and Emma got the feeling they were treading on dangerously similar waters – something her twelve-year-old had, apparently, picked up. “Speaking of which,” she said quickly. “Is he around?”  
  
“We were promised cheeseburgers,” Henry added. 

Ariel nodded solemnly. “So I’ve heard. And I can promise you they’re delicious – we just got a fresh order of the cheddar Rol demanded, again, this morning, but we’re kind of swamped right now,” she tilted her head towards the line that was now threatening to move out onto the sidewalk, “so, it may be a couple of minutes before Killian can come out. I don’t think he and Eric have moved out of the kitchen since we started service.”  
  
“Is it always like this?” Emma asked, more impressed than disappointed that they’d have to wait at the bar. She thought she saw Regina there already and wasn’t certain she was up to the task of making small talk. 

“Yeah, if you can believe it,” Ariel answered. “The Jolly’s always done a pretty good clip, but ever since IC and, now, this all-star thing we’ve been absolutely overrun. I mean, it’s a good problem to have, but I’ll be happy to see the expansion next year so I don’t have to keep turning people away. I hate doing that.”   
  
“You’re expanding the restaurant?”   
  
Ariel blinked twice, like she realized she’d given up some very  _ important _ information, and pressed her lips together tightly. “I kind of figured he’d told you that.” Emma shook her head. “Well, uh, maybe don’t mention I told you, ok? Technically I’m not even really supposed to know, but everyone in this restaurant is terrible at keeping secrets.”

“That so?”

There was an alarm going off in the back of Emma’s head, something about the secrets  _ she  _ was keeping and how that never seemed to work out well, but she didn’t have much time to dwell on the potential problem before she realized her feet were moving, swept into the restaurant with Henry by her side. 

“You guys can just hang out at the bar for now and, I’m sure, once he’s got two seconds to breathe, Killian will be here.” She nodded towards two empty seats on the corner – each with a  _ reserved _ placard sitting on them – and Emma felt her heart thump in her chest. “Will,” Ariel called, signaling to the man behind the bar. “This is Emma and her son Henry. They’re here for Killian. Give ‘em whatever they want.”   
  
“Can I have something to drink?” Henry asked, jumping up onto one of the open seats. 

“No,” said all three adults at once and his shoulders dropped noticeably. 

“Root beer?” Will suggested.  
  
“I guess,” Henry mumbled. 

“I could add ice cream.” Henry practically flew out of the chair, sitting up so straight Emma wasn’t entirely convinced he hadn’t been shocked by a live wire of some sort. “That cool with you?”

“Mom? Is that cool?”   
  
“Not a ton,” she said – never quite unable to stop herself from giving in to  _ that _ voice. 

“Deal,” Will agreed, grabbing a glass from behind his back. Ariel promised to be back soon, glancing nervously at the line of people still waiting for table and Emma did her best to try and relax. Regina was a few seats away, a kid Emma assumed was Roland sitting on her lap. There was a man standing behind her, hands on the back of the chair as the three of the talked quietly together. 

Will put the glass down in front of Henry a few moments later, practically overflowing with root beer and foam. “Try not to get a brain freeze,” he said, smile on his face as he handed Henry a straw and a spoon. 

“Deal,” Henry said, repeating the bartender’s words and drawing a soft laugh from him. 

“So,” Will said pointedly, turning his gaze on Emma as soon as he realized Henry was entirely too preoccupied with the drink in front of him to try and stage some sort of conversation. “You’re the famous Emma, then.”   
  
Emma narrowed her eyes in response, trying to figure out what exactly this was. It felt a bit like an inquisition. Or an interview. And she hated getting interviewed. 

“Famous in the sense that my face is on promotional materials across the city,” she said, voice thick with sarcasm. 

“Yeah, that’s not what I meant.”   
  
“What’d you mean then?”   
  
“I mean I’ve never seen Killian put reserved signs on seats at the bar ever and we were all told to be on our best behavior tonight because you were coming.”

“And that’s what this is? Your best behavior?”

“Something like it.”

“Well, I shudder to think what you’re like at your worst then.”   
  
Will laughed loudly, grinning at her and practically  _ waggling _ his eyebrows. “You want something to drink?”

“Was that an apology?” Emma asked, leaning forward slightly. “Lousy first impression.”   
  
“Nah, this is a fantastic first impression. Go ahead and admit you’re charmed by my vaguely sassy bartender persona. It’s ok, I won’t tell Killian.”   
  
“I don’t know if I’d go so far as to say charmed. Fascinated that you’re employed when this is how you speak to customers, but not quite charmed.”

“Ah, but you’re not a  _ normal _ customer are you?”

Emma tilted her head and looked at the bartender in front of her – eyebrows raised and a knowing smile on his face. She still had the reserved sign in her hand and she glanced down at it, a whole new set of nerves erupting in her stomach. 

“This guy isn’t giving you a hard time is he?” 

She spun in her chair – wondering how many people she was going to have to talk to before actually seeing Killian leave the kitchen – only to be met with a smiling man, a few years older than her, holding a child that appeared to be actually latched onto his side. 

“No, he’s fine,” Emma said quickly. “He gave my kid ice cream so I can’t really hate him that much.”   
  
“There’s ice cream?” Roland – Emma figured it had to be Roland – asked, practically yelling in the man’s ear. “Where?”   
  
“Nowhere,” the man muttered. “At least not until after you eat.”   
  
Emma grimaced. “Sorry,” she said. “Bad influence.”   
  
“Nah, it’s fine. And anyway, you know the rules don’t you mate?” Roland sighed dramatically and rolled his head onto his father’s shoulder. Robin laughed softly, grinning at Emma again. “He knows the rules.”   
  
“I take it you’re Robin?” she asked, finding herself charmed by the father-son duo in front of her. “And Roland?”   
  
“Yes and yes. And you’re Emma?”   
  
“That’s me.”   
  
“It’s nice to officially meet you. When I’m not being pushed out the door.”   
  
“I’m sorry about that. In addition to the ice cream.”   
  
“No need,” Robin promised. “It was almost nice to see.”   
  
“Yeah?” Emma asked, curiosity getting the better of her again. Robin groaned as Roland struggled against his grip, realizing there was another kid in the restaurant and suddenly very determined to make Henry’s acquaintance. 

“What is this?” Will asked, coming back to the conversation after dealing with a customer on the other end of the bar. “Are you turning on me already, Emma? I promise Robin’s not nearly as interesting as I am.”

“Ignore him,” Robin muttered, putting Roland back on the ground quickly. “Everyone else does unless they’re trying to get a drink.”   
  
“Rude.”   
  
Emma laughed, unable to hide her enormous grin at the sight in front of her – a family and friends and the cutest six-year-old she’d seen since Henry was six years old. And, suddenly, she’d wondered what exactly she’d stumbled into and where she fit in. 

She spun again at the sound of steps behind her – only audible over the low hum of the restaurant because they sounded like they were jogging towards her – and Killian skidded to a stop just a few feet away, eyes landing on Emma immediately.    
  
“Hey,” she said, ignoring Robin and Will’s gaze on her every movement. Emma tried to sit up a little straighter, cross her legs or do something that looked even vaguely like the mature, adult persona she was trying to give off, but she wasn’t certain she’d succeeded. Killian didn’t look away from her for a moment.

“Have you been out here long?” he asked, worry clouding his voice. 

Emma shook her head. “Couple of minutes. And Henry got a root beer float out of it, so everything’s good.”   
  
“Good, good,” he muttered, hand running through his hair quickly. He practically ripped it away when he noticed Emma smiling at him. “Hey, Henry,” Killian said, glancing towards him. Henry nodded back and, suddenly, Roland was much more interested in Killian than anyone else in the entire restaurant. He jumped slightly, bobbing on the balls of his feet until Killian bent down to lift him up. “Hey, mate,” he muttered before looking back up at Emma. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know we’d have so many people on a Tuesday.”

“I promise, everything is good,” Emma said. “Can I help?”   
  
The idea struck her quickly and it made so much sense she wasn’t sure why she didn’t come up with it as soon as she saw the line out onto the sidewalk. Killian, however, looked at her like she was speaking a different language. 

“What?”   
  
“Help,” Emma repeated. “I can help.”   
  
“I don’t understand.”   
  
“Put me to work.” Will was hysterical. Robin looked a bit surprised. Killian still seemed confused.  “I can cook you know,” Emma added, widening her eyes and trying not to laugh. 

“I know that, Swan.”   
  
“So then let me help. If you get a head start you can hand off to your sous chef, right?” Killian nodded slowly. “Put me to work, Lieutenant.”   
  
Will might have actually choked on air. “Did she just..” he sputtered, but he stopped talking quickly when Robin glared at him. 

Killian narrowed his eyes at her and Emma waited, almost, patiently for an answer, smile tugging on one side of her mouth. “You can chop,” he said. “But that’s it. We get back on schedule and then it’s cheeseburgers and studying.”

“Aye aye,” she said, saluting quickly and walking towards Henry, still entirely preoccupied with the root beer float. “You mind if I go help in the kitchen, real quick?”   
  
Henry shook his head. “Nah.” He twisted his neck to look back over his shoulder at Killian. “We’re still doing cheeseburgers later though, right?”

“Absolutely,” Killian promised. 

“You like cheeseburgers?” Roland asked loudly, bobbing on his feet again. “Uncle Killian makes the best cheeseburgers in the whole city. He told me so.”   
  
“Well, maybe not the whole city….”   
  
“I bet they’re good,” Henry agreed, ignoring Killian and every other adult in a five-foot radius. “My mom said his food was really good.”   
  
“You said that, Swan?” Killian asked, stupid smirk on his face, and Emma could feel the blush rising in her cheeks almost immediately. 

“Something like that,” she muttered. “Come on, show me the kitchen.”

Killian nodded slowly, stepping to the side and holding his hand out in the empty space behind him. Emma heard Robin sink into the seat she’d just left, talking to Henry about school and what he had to study, but she kept her eyes trained in front of her, walking through the dining room and down a small hallway that, she assumed, led to the kitchen. 

“It’s a very roundabout way isn’t it?” Emma asked, looking over her shoulder. 

“It wasn’t always a restaurant or a bar for that matter,” he said, leaning over her to push the kitchen door open. “It was an actual house.”   
  
“Really?”   
  
He hummed in agreement, handing Emma an apron and she tied it around her waist quickly. His kitchen should have been a madhouse – it wasn’t very big, certainly not for the number of people that were moving in and out of it – but it wasn’t. It was organized and, even at first glance, so efficient, Emma wondered if he really had given up on the Navy completely. 

“Eric,” Killian called quickly, nodding his head towards where he was standing next Emma. “Swan, this is Eric, my sous chef. Eric, this is Emma Swan.”   
  
“Nice to meet you,” Eric said, sticking out his hand and Emma took it quickly. “I’ve heard nothing but good things.”   
  
Emma’s face was still hot and she nodded in response, hoping to start working sooner rather than later. Things made more sense with a knife in her hand.  
“Swan’s going to help us out tonight,” Killian continued. “I’m assuming there are vegetables somewhere she can chop?”   
  
Eric nodded, eyes widening slightly at the instructions. “Yeah, Cap, of course. Um, Emma, if you want to come back here, there’s some potatoes that could have your name on them.”   
  
“Cool.” The sous chef still looked a bit shellshocked and Emma tried to smile encouragingly. “I can handle potatoes.”   
  
“Oh, that’s not what I meant…” Eric said quickly. Killian chuckled softly and his hand fell on Emma’s back, seemingly, out of instinct. 

“They’re not sweet potatoes are they?” he asked. Emma rolled her eyes, trying not to acknowledge the small fire that seemed to have erupted where his hand landed on her shirt. Eric looked confused. 

“It’s fine, Eric,” Emma said. “Lead me to the potatoes.”   
  
“No more than twenty minutes of this, Swan,” Killian muttered, turning back towards the the door when someone yelled his name. “You chop and you help and then you eat, ok? I didn’t have you come here just to put you to work.”  
  
“I know. But if I can help, there’s no reason not to.” 

“Twenty minutes,” he repeated, squeezing her arm. “Thank you, love.”

And then he was gone and Emma was walking towards the corner of the kitchen, the murmuring around her getting louder as she glanced around the room. “I feel like I  _ should _ be giving instructions or something,” Eric laughed, handing Emma a knife. “But somehow I get the feeling you know how to peel and cut potatoes.”

“Strangely enough, I do.”  
  
“I feel confident leaving the potatoes in your hands then.” Emma grabbed the peeler in front of her and started shaving quickly, rotating the potato in one hand and earning a low whistle from Eric. “Maybe you should be the Iron Chef,” he said softly. 

“Nah, it’s just muscle memory.”   
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“I worked in a lot of restaurants before I got the show.”   
  
“Does Killian know that?” Emma shrugged. She hadn’t mentioned it during their  _ whatever _ the week before, but he hadn’t really asked either. A waitress yelled Eric’s name and his head darted to the side quickly. 

“Go,” she said, resisting the urge to actually push him away. She didn’t need potato supervision. “I’ve got this handled. And, anyway, I’m on a time limit, remember?”   
  
“Thanks,” Eric said, exhaling loudly and jogging away from Emma. She took a deep breath, readjusting her grip on the peeler in her right hand and went back to work. 

Emma couldn’t remember the last time she’d actually been in a functioning kitchen that wasn’t her own or Mary Margaret’s, but she settled back into the work with ease, instincts taking over as she settled into a rhythm. She finished the potatoes in seven minutes flat, moved on to carrots and onions and was halfway through another round of potatoes when she felt a hand on her shoulder. 

“Time’s up, love,” Killian said softly, reaching forward to pull the knife out of her hand. 

Emma groaned and rolled her eyes. “Let me at least finish these.”   
  
“Are you actually asking me to let you keep working? In my restaurant when you’re supposed to be out in the dining room eating cheeseburgers?” Emma grabbed the knife handle – fingers brushing over his in a way that made her stomach flip and her mind focus on anything except potatoes – cutting again without another word. “Impossible,” Killian muttered. 

“I’m just trying to keep your kitchen running at top efficiency,” Emma laughed, pushing the chopped vegetables together with the side of her knife. She flipped her hair off her shoulders and she could  _ feel _ Killian’s smile on her. 

“You’ve already done that. I’m trying to keep my promise.”   
  
“Which was?”   
  
“To help Henry study and bake for you.”   
  
“You baked?”   
  
“I baked.”   
  
“When did you even find the time?”   
  
“You’d be surprised what I can accomplish when I don’t have to be in front of a camera.” Emma shook her head, pulse picking up when he looked at her – that small, nervous smile on his face and his eyes, maybe, lingering on her lips. 

The kitchen, suddenly, felt very small. 

“I can’t believe you actually baked something,” she mumbled. His hand hadn’t left Emma’s shoulder the entire time they were talking and he nudged her around slightly at the sound of her disbelief, turning her until she was looking straight at him. 

“I promised,” Killian said and his voice seemed to land somewhere in the vicinity of Emma’s heart. Or something stupid like that. “I wouldn’t lie to you, Swan.”   
  
And something in her believed him – completely. It was like the world had shifted or she blinked and everything suddenly came into focus and the only thing Emma could see was blue eyes and a quiet earnestness that made her wonder if she should start using the word  _ date _ more often. 

Emma nodded slowly and Killian’s hand was still on her shoulder. “Go back outside, love,” he said softly. “I owe you guys cheeseburgers.”   
  
“And onion rings?”   
  
“Hmmm?”   
  
“Henry might be obsessed with onion rings.”   
  
“I can make onion rings,” he said and it sounded like another promise. 

It took twenty more minutes for Killian to finally come out of the kitchen, flanked by Eric and piled down with several plates of cheeseburgers and onion rings. He leaned around Emma, putting the plates down in between her and Henry and the Mills-Locksley family – which had somehow joined them at the end of the bar while Emma was chopping vegetables – before making his way back behind the bar to grab four glasses with one hand.

“Impressive,” Emma said softly. Killian smirked at her. 

“Wait to dole out the compliments until you eat, Swan.”   
  
Henry, seemingly, had been raised in some kind of barn because he was already attacking the cheeseburger mumbling  _ this is really good _ in between bites. Even Regina laughed and Emma tried to slide down her seat. 

“Chew, kid,” she said, shaking her head and taking her own bite. Oh. It was really good. Absurdly good. And Emma shouldn’t have been surprised, but she felt her eyebrows draw low as she chewed, trying to figure out what that  _ one _ spice she couldn’t name was. 

“Swan?”

“This is delicious,” she said. Killian stuck his hands in his pockets, rolling back on his heels slightly and pouring something into a drink shaker she hadn’t seen him pick up. He looked embarrassed or nervous or something he absolutely shouldn’t have been because this might have been the best burger Emma had ever eaten. 

“Is this my cheese, Uncle Killian?” Roland asked. 

“All yours, mate.”   
  
“You did a really good job, Roland,” Emma said and Killian’s eyes widened slightly at the words. She ignored that look – the kind that practically screamed interest and emotions and things Emma had spent the last twelve years trying to stay away from. 

“What do you say, Rol?” Regina prodded, smiling over the boy’s head at Emma. That may have been the first time she’d ever smiled at her. 

“Thank you,” Roland said quickly. “Are you Uncle Killian’s girlfriend?”   
  
“Roland,” Regina said sharply and the boy’s head snapped around towards her, eyes wide and Emma almost  _ actually _ slid off her chair at the question. Killian’s hand was practically cemented in his hair at this point and Henry was laughing, still focused on his cheeseburger and personal plate of onion rings. 

“No,” Emma answered, doing her best to sound soothing to the kid who looked like he might actually be on the verge of tears. “Uncle Killian and I work together. We’re just friends.”   
  
“Gina used to be my dad’s friend too. And now they’re going to get married.”

Emma shut her eyes lightly, trying to come up with some sort of answer that would make sense to a six-year-old, but Killian cut in, leaning his forearms on the bar and staring straight at Roland. “That’s not how it always works, mate,” he said softly, hand running up and down Roland’s arm slowly and he was so ridiculously good at this. 

“Why?”   
  
Killian groaned softly, glancing at Emma so quickly she wasn’t entirely sure his eyes even moved towards her. “Just trust me on this, ok, Rol?” Roland nodded slowly, but he didn’t appear particularly pleased with the answer. Emma bit her lip, muscles tense and neck suddenly sore with how stiffly she was sitting in her chair. 

“Alright, Henry,” Killian said, mixing the drink Emma almost forgot he was making and pouring whatever he’d come up with into four separate glasses. “What are we studying?”   
  
“I thought you’d forget,” Henry sighed. Killian shook his head and Emma wasn’t entirely certain any of this was fair. 

He shouldn’t be this – he shouldn’t be talented and nice and so damn good to her kid  _ already _ that it was making her reconsider every rule she’d come up with in the last decade. Regina was staring at her – Emma could feel it – probably trying to get some sort of read on her and Emma smiled at the producer, determined to take things into her own hands. 

“When are you getting married, Regina?” Emma asked and the woman brightened immediately. 

She heard Will groan from the other side of the bar. “You’ve done it now, Emma,” he shouted. “She’ll never leave you and Killian alone now.”   
  
“Shut up, Scarlet,” Regina hissed, turning back towards Emma and pulling her phone out, practically shoving the screen at her to show off, what appeared to be, a wedding dress. “We’re getting married in February.”

“Here in New York?” Regina nodded, delving into a series of dates and locations and details that Emma could hardly keep up with. She kept nodding, though, humming interest and approval when appropriate while Killian rattled off major battles of the American Revolution to Henry like he’d actually been there. 

It wasn’t what she expected. 

She’d expected  _ awkward _ and forced conversation and, then, for good measure, even more awkward, but it was all so comfortable and  _ normal _ and Emma even found herself genuinely interested in Regina’s wedding plans. 

But, mostly, she was interested in Killian Jones in his element. 

He didn’t want to be captain of The Jolly Roger – or anything, if he was being honest with her – but Emma understood why his staff called him that. She’d seen him cook before, but there was something about watching him on his own turf, as it were, twisting between tables and back and forth to the kitchen like it was second nature, taking compliments from customers who’d waited months for a reservation and, over the course of the night, getting Henry to understand the idea of taxation without representation. 

He was confident there and comfortable and every time he brushed behind Emma’s chair his hand seemed to find its way to her shoulder and her heart thumped in her chest as the way every inch of her seemed to react at the touch. 

She wanted. A lot. 

It was nine o’clock before Emma realized and Roland had fallen asleep on Regina’s lap, hand gripping the front of her blazer tightly. Henry yawned loudly, hand wrapped around his neck tightly and Emma pushed herself off her chair, walking towards her kid and pulling his fingers away from his spine. “You ready to go kid?” she asked. 

“Right now?”   
  
“It’s a school night.”   
  
“But Killian said we’d run over dates one more time.”   
  
“Nuh uh,” Emma argued. “School night. C’mon, you know the rules.”   
  
Henry groaned loudly – a noise Emma was getting more and more used to – and flipped the cover of his book closed as Killian walked out of the kitchen again, wiping his hands on his apron and meeting Emma’s gaze. “Are you leaving?” he asked. 

Emma nodded. “School night.”   
  
“Ah, of course.” Killian walked to Henry’s other side, leaning against the bar with his arms crossed and a small smile on his face. “Let me know how you do, ok? And don’t forget the dates – 74, 76 and 81. Those are the big ones.”   
  
“Which ones are those?” Emma asked. 

“Lexington and Concord, the Declaration and the Battle of Yorktown,” Henry answered. 

“Oh and 77,” Killian added, snapping his fingers.   
  
“Battle of Saratoga.”

“An ‘A’ for sure.”   
  
“Hopefully.”   
  
Emma’s stomach was doing somersaults and Henry was smiling at Killian and remembering dates in the American Revolution and she didn’t know what to think. Happy. That’s what she was thinking – she was happy. 

“Undoubtedly,” Killian said and it was impossible to question him when he sounded so confident. “There are cookies in the kitchen, Swan. Ari may or may not have put them in some sort of to-go container.”  
  
The sides of her mouth ticked while Henry’s head moved on a swivel between the two of them. “That was super nice of her,” Emma said, meaning it. “Henry, uh, why don’t you pack up your stuff and I’ll be right back, ok?”  
  
Henry nodded – smiling like the  Cheshire Cat – and Emma followed Killian back into the kitchen, suddenly much quieter as the restaurant slowly, but surely wound down its dinner service. He grabbed the container from the corner of one of the work spaces in the back corner, turning back towards Emma with his hand outstretched and  _ something _ in the way he looked at her. 

Her heart thudded slowly – almost as if it was  _ settling _ into something and Emma felt her fingers brush against his as she took the container, left hand coming up to rest against his chest without even thinking about it. Killian sagged slightly underneath her and Emma was positive half a dozen people could see them in the corner of the kitchen. 

She didn’t care. 

Emma glanced up, Killian’s eyes practically boring a hole into the top of her head and she could see the muscle in his neck pulse quickly. He blinked and Emma was positive she wasn’t getting enough oxygen to her brain. 

“Thanks for helping, Henry,” she said softly. 

“I wanted to.”   
  
“So you said.”   
  
“I also said I wouldn’t lie to you.”   
  
“That too.”   
  
They stood frozen to the spot, a few inches between them for what felt like an entire other dinner service and Emma nearly dropped the container of cookies in her hand when the kitchen door swung open, slamming into the wall. Killian all but leapt away from her, glaring at the offending staffer as soon as they walked by him. 

“I know you’ll probably say no,” he said, laughter tinging his voice, “but I feel like I have to at least offer to walk you home.”   
  
“Such a gentleman.”   
  
“Always.”

“We’ll be fine,” Emma promised and Killian rolled his eyes knowingly. “Just three blocks.”   
  
“So I’ve heard.”   
  
“The burgers were really good, you know. Roland was right. Best in the city.”

Killian’s smile seemed to inch across his face and Emma needed to get three blocks away before she did something stupid like try and kiss him in the middle of his kitchen. “You’re going to inflate my ego to dangerous proportions, love.”   
  
“Ah, it’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

He moved his eyebrows quickly, hand brushing over hers as someone, finally, realized he was in the kitchen and not cooking something, yelling for him to  _ come help _ and Emma couldn’t help but laugh at the frustrated look on his face. 

“Go,” she said, hand rising back up to his chest to push him towards the stoves on the other side of the room. “I think I can handle walking to the door.”   
  
“Let me know when you’re home, ok?” he asked, taking her by surprise with the amount of concern in her voice. 

Emma nodded slowly, breathing through her nose so she wouldn’t actually sigh out loud. “I can do that.”

“Good.” He squeezed her arm quickly, throwing her a final smile before moving to take care of the latest culinary crisis. 

* * *

She was as good as her word fifteen minutes later, typing a quick  _ we’re home _ and  _ thank you again for tonight _ as soon as she’d slid the lock back in the door.

Henry tossed his backpack in the corner of the living room, ignoring Emma’s immediate protests. “Can I ask you a question?” he asked, toeing out of his shoes and putting them next to the offending backpack.

“Of course.”  
  
“So, like, are you and Killian a thing?”   
  
“A thing?”

“Yeah, you know, like Robin and Regina. Maybe without the wedding. But, like, dating?”   
  
“What gives you that idea?” Emma asked, sinking into the couch and wrapping a piece of hair around her finger. 

Henry shrugged. “I don’t know, just seemed like it. You never talk about guys and the only person from the network I know is Ruby. I guess I figured it made sense.”   
  
“It made sense?”   
  
Emma felt like a broken record, a million questions and a very  _ understanding _ twelve-year-old in front of her, but Henry just shrugged again. “You like him. He likes you. Isn’t that how it’s supposed to work?”   
  
She didn’t have an answer – because she wasn’t quite sure how those things  _ actually _ did work. “It doesn’t always work like that, kid.”   
  
“Well, that’s dumb.”   
  
“Henry!”

“Come on, mom. He made you cookies. And he wanted us to come to his restaurant. And he kept touching your shoulder when he walked by. I’m not blind.”   
  
“I know you’re not, but it’s a lot more complicated than all of that. We’re competing on the same show.”   
  
Henry smiled like Emma had just admitted to something important and, she supposed, she had. “I don’t think it really matters,” he said. “I think it’d be ok.”   
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“I like him. He knows a lot about the Revolution and that cheeseburger was better than anything Uncle David’s ever made.”

“Don’t tell Uncle David that,” Emma laughed, feeling the tension ease between her shoulders.    
  
“Of course not.”   
  
“Go get ready for bed, kid. You can play matchmaker later, ok?”   
  
Henry groaned, but turned down the hallway, flipping on the bathroom light as Emma’s phone vibrated on the coffee table in front of her. Killian. 

**_I’m glad you managed to get home, Swan. And stop thanking me for something I wanted to do_ ** **.**

Emma tugged on her hair again and started typing back, fingers flying over the screen.  _ You get thanked when you do something nice. Deal with it. _

**_Fair enough. Next time Henry’s got a history exam we’ll make something else. Tell him to pick a food._ **

_ You trying to feed my kid now? _

**_And you._ **

Emma’s pulse thudded and her head fell back against the top of the couch with a soft  _ thump _ as Henry’s feet padded towards his room.  _ I can feed myself, you know. And look who’s getting confident with talk of next time.  _

**_You’re the one with all the compliments, love. This confidence is all your fault._ **

_ I’ve created a monster.  _

**_One who’d very much like to cook for you again._ **

She yanked her legs up onto the couch, balancing her arches on the edge of the cushion and resting her head on her knees as she answered.  _ That sounds really nice _ .

**_It does_ ** **.**

Emma fell asleep two hours later – phone in desperate need of a charge after two hours of text messages and updates on customers and the status of the kitchen after the over-booked Tuesday night Killian had just dealt with. And she was exhausted and happy and, maybe, reconsidering her compartmentalized life just a bit. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another update, another explosion of words. Now with the added bonus of MOMENTS AT THE RESTAURANT and snark and cookies. Killian definitely stress-baked peanut butter cookies (relatively easy, simple recipe, doesn't have to think about it), but he made Emma ginger snaps (with an absolutely ridiculous amount of cinnamon on top) to try and impress her. It totally worked. They'll make out eventually. 
> 
> @laurnorder continues to be a beacon of word-reading light and perfect'ness and this wouldn't make any sense without her because I always type too quickly and miss a word. Come flail with me on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com because I'm super close to a follower milestone and I'm thinking....about doing a writing giveaway type thing. Ah!


	12. Chapter 12

Regina was going to drive him insane. 

There was no way around it. She was going to drive him insane and then, based on that insanity, he might actually kill her and that would upset Roland. 

She was talking in his ear again, something about getting back to the Iron Chef booth and scheduled photo ops and then something else about posing with the fellow network all-stars. Killian groaned loudly, running his face over his hand, the beard he was apparently now growing, scratching his palm slightly. “You should have shaved before this,” Regina said. “You look like a hobo.”  
  
“A hobo?” Killian repeated, raising his eyebrows. 

Regina shrugged. “Seemed like the politically correct term.”  
  
“If you’d stop over-scheduling me during this stupid thing, maybe I’d actually have time to shave and, you know, sleep.”  
  
“New York Wine and Food is a big deal,” Regina said, not for the first time that week. “It’s a huge festival with lots of fans and events and, not to mention, it’s sponsored by the network. I couldn’t get you out of this if I tried.”  
  
“Which of course you didn’t.”  
  
“You’re in quite a mood.”

“I am tired. There’s a difference.”   
  
“Apparently not.”   
  
Killian groaned again. He was in a mood. And Regina, unfortunately, was on the receiving end of it because, Regina, unfortunately, wouldn’t stop nagging him about this stupid festival and how much he  _ owed _ the network. He didn’t owe the network anything. 

He also had his own restaurant to deal with and the expansion and the pop-up shop he and Robin had decided was a  _ fantastic _ idea several months before. It seemed like an awful idea now – just another thing he had to do. 

And Emma hadn’t texted in days. 

That might have been why he was in a mood. Or whatever this was. 

It had gone really well for the first few days after the study-eating-baking thing they’d done – exchanged updates on her show and The Jolly and even the ‘A’ Henry got on the exam. But then there’d been nothing except radio silence and Killian hadn’t been able to work up the courage to text again and ask what was going on. 

He was a coward.

And he was acting like a teenager with a crush. 

“You know she’s going to be here,” Regina said, pushing on his shoulder as she directed him through the small crowd that had gathered in front of the Iron Chef booth. 

“Who?”   
  
Regina glared at him, mouth twisted as she crossed her arms tightly and nodded towards the only empty chair left at the table. “Emma,” she said simply and his heart  _ certainly _ didn’t lurch in his chest at the sound of her name. 

That would have been absurd. 

Of course she’d be there. It was a network-sponsored event. And she was a network all-star. Of course she’d be there. He wasn’t nervous about that. 

He was an Iron Chef for God’s sake and a network all-star in his own right  _ and _ he owned his own restaurant. A restaurant that was currently overbooked again that weekend and selling out of BBQ sauce at the pop-up shop two blocks away. 

“You know Emma’s going to be here this afternoon,” Regina continued, seemingly unconcerned by Killian’s silent pep-talk and possible mental breakdown. She reached out to tug on the vest she’d picked out of his closet that morning and he swatted her hand away, earning another glare for his efforts. “You know that, right?”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“And what, Regina?” he snapped. “What exactly are you getting at?” She took a step back, eyes flashing dangerously at him and Killian bit his tongue. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“You’re an ass.”  
  
“True.”  
  
“What happened? She tell you not to call her again and you couldn’t try and impress her and her kid with cheeseburgers and a fancy history degree you don’t ever talk about?”  
  
Killian resisted the urge to slide down the chair he was sitting, fully aware of the several dozen eyes on him, waiting for him to talk about special ingredients and judgings. “I didn’t call her to begin with,” he said, rushing over the words quickly. 

“What?”  
  
“She called me. Once. We’re mostly texters.”  
  
“Texters?”  
  
“Twenty-first century adults and all that.”  
  
“Sounds like twenty-first century teenagers.”  
  
“And none of your business.”

Regina tapped the toe of her heel and  _ that _ was a very specific kind of warning – he was minutes away from a lecture and a discussion he wasn’t all that interested in about figuring out his life and dealing with things better. 

Killian was just about to Regina off – Iron Chef fans around them be damned – when he noticed the look on her face, the way her eyes widened quickly and one side of her mouth ticked up. “What?” he asked. 

She nodded towards the far corner of the crowd and Killian followed her gaze, eyes landing, directly, on Emma Swan. 

And it was like everything shifted and the mood was gone and he wasn’t upset about being forced into another day of panels and questions and photo ops. She smiled at him, raising her hand quickly to wave and Killian nodded at her, practically beaming across the hall at the woman he couldn’t quite get out of his head. 

Emma pushed her hair over her shoulders, shaking it off her neck and it only took a few seconds before the crowd of cooking fans realized exactly who she was. She looked a bit stunned at first, but fell into  _ gracious _ quickly, smiling and posing for photos and, God, Killian couldn’t stop watching her. 

He didn’t understand why they’d moved her out of her timeslot – not when people were so clearly interested, him most of all. She needed to win. She deserved to win. And he couldn’t let her. 

Fuck. 

Regina coughed pointedly and Killian shook his head quickly, trying to pull his eyes away from Emma as she signed, what appeared to be, her own cookbook. “They’re going to start now,” Regina said, flicking a finger against Killian’s shoulder. “Pull yourself together.”  
  
“I am consistently pulled together,” he shot back, glaring at her. 

“Yeah, sure. Answer the questions and pose for a few photos and then go flirt with Emma Swan again.”   
  
He opened his mouth to respond – something about how he  _ didn’t _ flirt, but he couldn’t even bring himself to lie blatantly to Regina like that – but the MC started the panel and he had a role to play. 

Over the last few years he’d gotten very good at this. He was cocky and self-assured on camera, full of one-liners and innuendo and quick, vaguely sarcastic smiles. And it had been fine for awhile. The  _ look _ was very specific – there was a reason Regina had picked out the vest and the t-shirt, after all. It drew in viewers and brought in reservations to The Jolly, but then Emma Swan was standing in the back of the panel with her arms crossed lightly over her chest and an amused smile on her face whenever Killian tried to answer a question. 

It lasted almost an hour and Killian knew he hadn’t quite lived up to expectations – he’d tried to, for the first time, answer honestly, to talk about the food and his restaurant and what all of that meant to him. 

Not many people seemed to care. 

The answers didn’t draw the laughs they usually did or the wistful sighs and when he walked off the stage, Regina’s pointed glare was all the proof he needed to know he’d been too  _ him _ on stage. “Killian,” she said, practically hissing out his name at him. 

“Not now,” he brushed her off, jogging down the steps on the side of the stage and weaving his way through the crowd. He ignored the requests to talk, the phones held out in front of him and moved towards the back of the room, only stopping when he was a foot in front of Emma. She still had her arms crossed, but her smile hadn’t wavered once. 

“I can’t believe your favorite secret ingredient was rum,” Emma said, laughing softly as she spoke. She was still smiling at him, eyes flashing as she brushed her hair out of her face. It was pulled up again and the curve of her shoulders was like a flashing, neon sign of everything Killian wanted. 

He was going to kill Ruby – or at least whine slightly – she’d probably put Emma in this outfit. There should have been sleeves. He wasn’t going to be able to think without sleeves when they were on the same panel. 

“You can do a lot with rum,” he said.  
  
“Yeah, like sanitize hand wounds.”

“I don’t know that I’d call it a wound, Swan. It was a cut.”  
  
“Yeah, but wound sounds more dramatic. Like I survived some sort of battle or something.”  
  
“Maybe you should stop doing your own dishes then.”  
  
Emma laughed loudly, drawing a few questioning glances from the crowd around them and Killian was grinning like a fool. He heard someone’s phone shutter sound and then an actual camera and that might have actually been a network photographer. 

“What are you doing here?” Killian asked. “According to the very detailed schedule Regina has me on, all-star stuff isn’t until this afternoon.”  
  
“It’s not,” Emma agreed. “But I dropped Henry off at school and I was like six blocks away, so it seemed kind of stupid to go back home. Plus, I saw you were going to do this Iron Chef panel and I was a bit interested to see you in your natural habitat.”  
  
Killian scoffed, rocking back on his heels as his right hand ghosted over his brace. Emma’s eyes dropped at the movement, smile faltering just a bit, and he dragged his arms back to his side. “Ah, but you’ve already seen that, love,” he said softly. “IC’s not natural. It’s forced and chock-full of expectations.”

“The Jolly?” Emma asked, an unspecific question he was already nodding in agreement at. 

“Exactly.”  
  
“I’m sorry we haven’t been back since then. I wanted to. It’s just been kind of crazy with the show and Henry’s playing soccer now and…”  
  
“Henry’s playing soccer?”

“Yeah, I mean, it’s not anything crazy, just a middle school league, but we had to buy cleats and shinguards and did you know there are specific socks they have to wear? And he’s got games apparently every other day, so I’ve been trying my best to get to those too.”

“I did know there are specific socks they have to wear,” Killian laughed. “But you don’t have to rationalize any of this, Swan. Has he scored yet?”  
  
“He’s playing goalie.”  
  
“Ah, even better. Let me know the next time he’s got a game, I’ll make something.”  
  
“What?”

Emma’s eyes widened with what looked like disbelief and for one terrifying second Killian was worried he’d overstepped. They weren’t dating. He’d met Henry a handful of times. He and Emma were, maybe, friends at best – he hoped they were  _ at least _ friends – but he certainly wasn’t at updates-on-soccer-games status yet. 

Killian chewed on the inside of his lip, wrapping his fingers over the brace on his left hand and tried not to look as if he’d just realized something absolutely horrible. “Not that I’m assuming you’re not completely capable of making something, Swan,” he said quickly. “Just, you know, stress baking leaves me with more desserts than I know what to do with and, well, it seemed like middle schoolers…"  
  
“Stop,” she said softly, reaching forward to grab his hand away from his wrist. He stared at the movement, the feel of her fingers on his skin nearly burning him, and did his best not to fall over in the middle of the crowd still taking pictures of their conversation. “I know what you meant,” Emma continued. “And it was nice.”  
  
“Nice?”  
  
“The nicest, maybe.”

Killian grinned at her and her hand hadn’t moved. And he wanted to be anywhere except the ground they were standing on. His mind was a great, big traitor, practically  _ screaming _ at him to kiss her and he wanted to, wanted to feel her fingers everywhere, wanted to see how often he could make her smile while telling her all the things he  _ wanted. _

He didn’t. 

He should have. And he didn’t. 

He met her eyes instead and Emma looked up at him like she was willing herself to trust him and he decided, right then, that she wouldn’t have to do that ever again. She’d trust him by default because he could be this – the nice guy and the friend and whatever else she wanted. And he’d wait. 

“He’s got a game next week,” Emma said softly. 

“Consider it done then.”  
  
Emma nodded – an awkward, jerky movement that made Killian’s heartbeat stutter in his chest slightly. “Excuse me?” a voice asked behind them and they both jumped apart like they’d been caught behind the bleachers or something. “Do you think I could get a picture with the two of you?

Killian blinked quickly, hand tugging on his hair and Emma coughed softly next to him – a tell. He glanced at her, grinning quickly, before nodding at the woman in front of them. “Yeah, of course,” he said, stepping back towards Emma and tugging her against his side while the woman held her phone out in front of them. 

She fit. 

He tried not to read into that too much, smiling for the camera and ignoring the easy way she breathed against him. She fit next to him and at his restaurant and in his life. And he might be halfway in love with her already. 

Fuck. 

“Thank you so much,” the woman said quickly, stuffing her phone back in her bag as she spun around to stare at the two of them. “I loved you guys on Cutthroat Kitchen. The banter was like, other level. My friends are all pretty convinced you’re going to get married.”   
  
“I’m sorry, what?” Emma sputtered quickly and Killian was positive he was  _ actually _ going to fall over at that point. 

The woman’s eyes narrowed nervously and her entire top row of teeth bit down on her lower lip. “Sorry,” she said quickly, waving her hands in the space in front of her. Emma moved to her right, trying to put some space between her and Killian and he almost didn’t mind. If she kept standing that close to him while people were talking marriage and banter he was _absolutely_ going to kiss her. “It’s just, you guys played off each other so well and, I mean, you made soup while you were tied together.”  
  
“It’s ok,” Killian said quickly, hand dropping on the woman’s arm as he tried to ignore Emma’s vaguely manic expression. “Maybe let your friends down easy, ok?”  
  
“You mean you guys aren’t together?”  
  
Killian tried not to sigh out loud. This had happened before – questions about his life away from the kitchen and romantic pursuits and whether or not he and Tink had ever actually gone on a date – and, for the most part, he’d dealt with it in stride. But that was before Emma Swan was standing behind him, so encased in her own walls and worries, that Killian wasn’t quite sure how to respond. 

“Just friends,” he said quickly and the woman’s shoulders sagged slightly. 

“Exactly,” Emma mumbled. She wasn’t helping much. 

“Ah, well, ok,” the woman said. “Thanks again for the picture. And, uh, I can’t wait for the Chopped round of the competition.”  
  
“Neither can we,” Killian responded, smiling and trying his best to keep this professional. The woman nodded, muttering a thank you at them again as she retreated back to her friends quickly. 

“Sorry, Swan,” he said, turning back around to find her tugging on the ends of her hair. “Are you ok?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine…”  
  
“But?”  
  
“But Henry asked me the same question. After we came to The Jolly.”  
  
And suddenly it all made sense. 

The lack of text messages and the very obvious attempts to keep things as professional as possible and, most troubling, the nervous look on Emma’s face. 

“Oh,” Killian said softly, silently cursing himself for not coming up with something more  _ encouraging _ to say. 

“Oh?”  
  
“What would you like me to say, Swan?”  
  
“I have absolutely no idea.”  
  
“Well, what did you tell Henry?” Emma’s eyes flashed up at him and Killian realized they were treading on some very thin ice. He’d wait. Or do whatever she wanted. He was, after all, a gentleman. 

And Liam would probably rise from the grave and haunt him if he did anything less. 

“I told him what you told Roland,” Emma said quickly. “That we were friends. That’s not wrong is it?”  
  
Her voice dropped as she finished talking, eyes falling to her feet and she rolled her shoulders uncomfortably. Killian’s stomach clenched at the sight of her and he wished she’d tell him what happened – what had made her so scared to trust him. He wanted her to trust him. 

“Of course not, love,” he answered, fingers coming up under her chin lightly until she was looking at him again. “That’s not something you have to worry about.”  
  
She nodded slowly. “Good.” His phone rang loudly in his back pocket and Emma laughed at the sound, taking a step back and nodding towards him. “Popular,” she said.   
  
“Overscheduled,” Killian corrected, grabbing the phone and swiping his thumb across the screen. “What?” he asked, knowing full-well it was Robin. 

“Jeez, Gina wasn’t wrong. You are in a mood.”  
  
“And you’re interrupting. What’s going on?”  
  
“I just figured you might want to know that you were supposed to be at this pop-up shop ten minutes ago for some sort of photo op and you are, decidedly, not here.”  
  
“Oh, fuck,” Killian muttered, earning another laugh out of Emma. “Yeah, I’ll be right there.”  
  
“Bring Emma with you,” Robin suggested. “Then you can show off outside of the restaurant too.”

Killian didn't answer, just hit end on the call and gripped his phone a little tighter than necessary. “You want to take a walk, Swan?” She stared at him speculatively, tilting her head in question and Killian smiled wider at her.  “I am, apparently, ten minutes late for my own photo op and the masses are getting restless.”  
  
“That ego knows no bounds does it?”  
  
“Only when you’re around, love.”  
  
“You think that’s a good thing?”  
  
“I think that could be an excellent thing,” he said honestly. “There are probably free samples involved, if that helps sway your decision.”

“Ah, well, if there are free samples involved.”  
  
Emma raised her eyebrows quickly, pushing her hair behind her ears and Killian knew, unequivocally, he was absolutely in over his head. 

They made it the two blocks to The Jolly Roger’s pop-up location in five minutes, moving through the apparent sea of people interested in wine and food in the middle of midtown with, relative, ease. 

Killian almost tripped over his own feet though when Emma’s hand reached out in front of her, fingers tugging on his lightly as she tried to make sure they didn’t get separated by a particularly energetic group of people gunning for the ‘Cupcake Wars’ table. 

Friends. 

They could absolutely be friends. 

No problem at all. 

“Ah, look who finally made it,” Robin said, voice thick with sarcasm as Killian slid into the back of the small booth, Emma only a few feet behind him. “And brought Emma with him,” he added, eyes widening at Killian. “It’s nice to see you again, Emma.”  
  
“It’s nice to see you too, Robin.”  
  
“Hi Emma,” Roland cried, appearing out of nowhere to practically jump towards Emma. She took it in stride, crouching down with a smile on her face to meet the soon-to-be-seven-year-old on even footing. 

“Hi Roland,” she said, hand resting on his shoulder as she spoke. “Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”  
  
“I didn’t feel good this morning,” he said, face twisting up to really sell the point. “So dad said I could come with him to work.”  
  
“You brought your sick kid to a wine and food festival?” Killian asked, leaning on the side wall of the booth with his ankles crossed in front of him. “Near my food?”  
  
“Relax,” Robin sighed. “It wasn’t that.”  
  
Killian narrowed his eyes, but Emma nodded knowingly at Robin. “Someone wanted to get out of school,” she said softly, brushing Roland’s hair out of his forehead. 

“It’s almost my birthday,” Roland added, as if that made it all understandable. “And Gina said you were probably going to be here too.”

“What?”  
  
“You haven’t been back to the restaurant in a long time. Is Henry here too?”  
  
“No, Henry’s in school,” Emma answered. “But, um, he might stop by later. I’m sure he’d love to see you too, Roland.”  
  
“You can call me Rol,” he said seriously and Killian glanced at Robin, an amused look plastered on his face. “Everybody else does. Or mate, but only dad and Uncle Killian call me that.”  
  
“We’ll stick with Rol. I wouldn’t want to steal your dad and Uncle Killian’s nickname.”

Roland nodded seriously and Killian couldn’t take his eyes off Emma – again – teeth tugging on her lip and an expression he hadn’t seen before on her face. She looked somewhere between overwhelmed and happy and Killian’s whole body felt like it was on pins and needles looking at her. 

“Come on, mate,” Killian said, walking over towards Roland and clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t you come help direct this line and we can get through this as quickly as possible, huh?”  
  
“Ok!”  
  
“Killian,” Robin sighed. “If you rush through this, Gina’s going to kill you. These people paid money for this.”  
  
“People paid money to take their picture with you?” Emma asked. “For real?”  
  
“Thanks for that vote of confidence, Swan.”  
  
“Please, like your ego could take a hit from one sentence. I just meant I didn’t realize that was a thing people did.”  
  
Killian shrugged. “Apparently.”  
  
“Well, color me impressed with your celebrity.”

He rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t stop smiling at her either and Emma, very clearly, knew she had won. “Come on, mate,” Killian said to Roland. “We’ll go charm the line and then Gina won’t be able to yell at me.”  
  
Robin sighed again, but Killian just smirked in return, eyes landing on Emma as he pulled the first-grader towards the line that was criss-crossing in front of the booth. He spent the next twenty minutes of his life standing in front of a camera, the muscles in his face cramping slightly from smiling, as Roland directed the line with all the adorable-ness Killian had been hoping to use to his advantage. 

And then the line was gone and he’d lived up to expectations and they’d run out of BBQ sauce. Again. 

“You know, you probably should have brought more with you,” Robin said as Killian walked back into the booth, Roland practically clinging to his leg as he moved. 

“And where would we have put it in this tiny booth?”  
  
“Maybe you should expand that too.”  
  
Killian’s head snapped towards his friend, eyes wide with disbelief and frustration and a slew of other emotions that weren’t entirely appropriate in front of a six-year-old and a woman he was absolutely still trying to impress. 

“It’s ok,” Emma said quickly, sitting on the edge of the front counter and shuffling the money in her hands so all the bills were facing the same direction. 

“I don’t remember putting you to work again, Swan,” Killian said. 

She shrugged. “I volunteered.”  
  
“You do that a lot.”  
  
“I get bored very easily.”  
  
“Of course,” Killian laughed, leaning next to her. “Alright,” he sighed, “I’ll bite. What’s ok?”  
  
“Oh, I know already.”  
  
“About?”  
  
“You expanding the restaurant.”  
  
Killian’s neck actually cracked with how quickly he turned towards her and Emma eyed him warily, putting the cash back in the register. “What? How?”  
  
“Don’t kill Ariel, she was only the messenger. And she thought you’d already told me.”  
  
“Why would she think that?”

“Beats me. That’s just what she said.”   
  
“Yuh huh.”   
  
“Why are you mad?” Emma asked, crossing her legs and pressing her palms flat against the counter.   
  
“I’m not.”  
  
“Yuh huh,” she repeated. 

Robin eyed them nervously, eyes darting across Killian’s face. “Come on, Rol,” he said quickly. “Let’s go see where Gina is.”  
  
Roland glanced at Killian, as if he absolutely understood what was going on, and nodded, hand reaching up for Robin’s as the two of them moved out of the too-crowded booth on 46th Street. “You going to tell me what’s going on now?” Emma asked. “This seems like a really good thing actually.”  
  
“It is,” Killian said, not turning around to face her. 

And it would be. If he wasn’t an asshole with a very obvious distrust of his real estate agent and the deal he’d made. He and Robin had gone back to the warehouse the week before – in between afternoons on sets and dinner services and wallowing over his lack of texts from Emma – and even Killian had to admit it looked fantastic. 

It was enormous and overwhelming and he still wasn’t certain how they were actually going to consistently fill the dining room, but the building had  _ something _ that he couldn’t quite name. And the kitchen was going to be incredible. 

Gold reminded him – again – about the stipulations of the money and the expectations that Killian would win the next round of the competition as soon as he handed him the check. He’d nodded slowly, not trusting himself to actually say anything that wouldn’t get Robin to glare at him, and continued to walk around the building.

Gold had laughed softly at that. 

“But?” Emma asked. 

“But nothing,” Killian said quickly – far too quickly to actually sound like the truth. “It is a good thing.”   
  
“Then why all the cloak and dagger nonsense.”   
  
He turned around, finally, meeting Emma’s questioning gaze and the small smile on her face made him want to tell her everything. He couldn’t. And he didn’t. Because  _ this _ – whatever this was, the talking and the friendship and how much he wanted to kiss her senseless – was, suddenly, far too important. 

And he wouldn’t risk that. 

Even if it meant lying to her face. 

“There’s no cloak and dagger anything, love,” he said. “Promise. You’re right. It’s a good thing. I’ve just been all over the place the last few weeks, so it’s always just out of my mind. That’s all.”  
  
“You’re not constantly thinking about the expansion of your restaurant?” Emma asked skeptically and Killian wondered what he’d done to make him so painfully obvious to her. “Seems a little out of character.”  
  
“And you’re so well-acquainted with that, then?”

Emma narrowed her eyes, sitting up straighter and Killian’s stomach felt like it had fallen into his feet. “Friends know each other, right?” she asked. 

“True.”  
  
“And we’re friends, right?”  
  
“Also true.”

“Then, yeah, I’d say I know some things.”

Killian’s feet – stomach back in its appropriate place again – were moving before he realized it, walking towards her and her crossed legs and appraising stare. He put his hand on her knee, ignoring the warning bells sounding in the back of his head and he felt as if he’d just earned a Michelin Star when she didn’t push him away. 

Naturally, that feeling didn’t last long. 

The door to the booth swung open again, but Emma didn’t move and Killian’s hand tightened on her knee at the sound of Regina’s heels behind him. 

“She looks like she’s about to yell at you,” Emma warned, one side of her mouth pulling up. 

Killian shook his head and resisted the urge to collapse against her. _Friends. Friends. Friends_. “I took the pictures, Gina,” he said, not looking away from Emma. “You’ve got nothing to yell about. We’re back on schedule and everything.”  
  
“Yeah, took the pictures and used my kid as some sort prop.”  
  
“Crowd control.”

“You’re an ass.”  
  
“You’ve used that insult already today,” he muttered, turning around to meet her exasperated gaze with one of his own. “Slacking just a bit.”  
  
“Because I’m constantly trying to figure out where you’ve disappeared off to.”  
  
“If you seen Robin and Roland you’ll know I was right here the whole time.”  
  
“Sure.” Regina’s eyes landed on Emma and the distinct lack of space between her and Killian. “I just wasn’t sure what I was interrupting.”

Killian bit back his anger as Emma’s leg shifted against him, bumping his side as she slide off the counter to stand next to him. “You’re not interrupting anything,” Emma said quickly and Killian’s mouth lifted up at the sound of her voice. “In fact, we should all probably get going, don’t you think? Don’t want to be late for the all-star panel.”  
  
“Of course not,” Regina said, eyeing Emma with something that might have actually been classified as _impressed_. Killian felt a bit out of place in his own conversation. “Let’s go then.”  
  
Emma nodded once, looking back over her shoulder at Killian when he didn’t immediately move and he was struck with the sudden understanding of just how much he didn’t know about her yet. And how much he still wanted to know. 

He couldn’t remember the last time someone – not him – had matched Regina like that. And really, his own responses were mostly so cloaked in sarcasm that they didn’t even hold much of a bite. Emma’s voice had cut through Regina’s well-crafted producer persona, though, and if it didn’t sound so stupid to say out loud, he probably would have told her he was impressed or something. 

It sounded too stupid to say out loud. 

She kept doing that – taking him by surprise. She’d worked in his kitchen and apparently man’ed the cash register and sold out of BBQ sauce in twenty minutes. And he couldn’t help but wonder how hard she’d worked to get where she was. He was impressed by that too. 

It still sounded stupid. 

Killian was so wrapped up in his own thoughts and questions and _want_ that he hardly realized they’d made it back to the main hall, Emma and Regina a few steps ahead of him, discussing something about the all-star competition and the possible _theme_ for the next episode. They walked up to the stage to find Belle and Graham already there in addition to a very flustered-looking Ruby Lucas.   
  
“Where have you been?” she asked, hounding Emma as soon as she approached the steps. 

Emma opened her mouth to answer, but Killian cut in quickly. 

“Afraid that’s my fault,” he said as Ruby’s eyes snapped towards him. “I’ve got my own pop-up for the restaurant and I thought it might be good to have Swan make an appearance, help drive up sales, you know. It worked too. Sold out of BBQ sauce in twenty minutes.”  
  
“I don’t know if that was just because of me,” Emma muttered, but she didn’t dispute his story, shooting him a thankful glance instead. He nodded quickly, pressing his lips together tightly. “It might just be good sauce.”  
  
“And a good sales pitch.”  
  
Ruby looked somewhere between disgusted and entertained, crossing her arms. “Well, ok,” she sighed. “Next time just let me know, ok, Em? I thought you’d died or something.”  
  
“I have not,” Emma promised.   
  
“Yeah, I can see that.”

“Should we get on stage?” Killian asked, hand falling on the small of Emma’s back as he nudged her towards the stairs. She stiffened underneath him slightly, but didn’t push him away again and he was fairly positive he didn’t imagine the way she actually leaned against him while she walked up the stars. 

He pulled her chair out for her, flashing a smile her direction and was met with a pair of very well-rolled eyes. “Gallant,” she muttered, tugging her skirt as she sat down. 

“Gentleman.”

Regina had somehow gotten herself set up as the moderator for their panel – that desperate need to be in control taking over once again – and she was in the midst of introductions and Killian couldn’t keep his eyes off Emma or that one piece of hair that kept falling out of her very intricate hair. It was the same piece of hair that kept falling in her face during Cutthroat and that seemed, somehow, unfair. 

Like it was teasing him or something. 

They were the usual questions – Belle’s frosting recipe and fondant choices, Graham’s desire to spend entire weekends cooking in the woods, even one for Emma about that crepe recipe on Cutthroat. And then they landed on him. 

“This question is for Killian,” said a body-less voice from somewhere in the crowd. “I was just wondering how difficult it is to cook on these competition shows with his hand, all that pressure and bright lights and everything.”  
  
Killian stiffened slightly in the chair. He saw Emma move out of the corner of his eye, fingers tightening around the fabric of that skirt she kept tugging on. He tried to brush her off, to tell her it didn’t matter or something – without saying anything – and knew he had failed completely as soon as her eyes met his. 

It looked like pity. 

And that made him mad. 

The body-less, face-less fan coughed softly in the microphone like they were expecting an answer to the world’s most inappropriate question and Killian crossed and recrossed his legs underneath the table before he answered. He put his hand – the one he had – flat on the table in front of him, dragging the microphone stand closer with the prosthetic and Emma’s stare was practically burning a hole in the side of his face at this point. 

“It’s really not a problem anymore,” Killian said slowly. “Took some getting used to at first, but medical science is pretty impressive at this point, so, you know I can’t really grip things, but there’s something to be said for resting and pushing and even a bit of dragging from time to time.” He held up the prosthetic like he it was fucking show and tell or something and the crowd made some sort of collective noise that they should have expected considering the question. Emma might have sighed. 

He hope she didn’t sigh. 

Killian glanced towards her – pity and concern and something close to worry etched into every single inch of her face – and she seemed to sag a little bit when he smiled. “I taught myself how to cook after I lost my hand,” Killian continued, still looking at Emma. “So it’s never really been an issue. It’s just been part of me.”   
  
Emma definitely sighed at that, grabbing her microphone quickly and flashing her eyes out at the crowd and, God help him, some of them might have actually taken a step back. “It’s not like Killian can’t cook,” she said, voice shop and  _ fuck _ she was defending him. 

In front of the wine and food crowd. 

Regina’s eyes looked like they were going to fall out of her sockets, forearms resting against the top of the podium she was standing behind. “And, anyway,” Emma continued, hand gripping her designated microphone so tightly her knuckles had turned white. “What kind of question is that, even? I mean, do you know how rude that is? Killian’s a fantastic chef and he wins Iron Chef every time he’s on and…”

Ruby’s heels clicked up the steps to the stage, tugging the microphone out of Emma’s vice-like grip and it seemed to suddenly dawn on her what she’d done. Her eyes widened slightly and she nodded at Ruby. Graham and Belle just looked incredibly out of place. 

Killian turned towards her completely – knees brushing up against the fabric of that  _ stupid _ skirt – and resisted the urge to put his hand on her leg or push that strand of hair behind her ear. “I think we’re all set on questions,” Regina said, trying to seize back control of the panel and the murmuring sell-out crowd in front of them. “If you’ve got photo op passes, we’ll be setting up the line around the back of the stage and we’ll get started in about five minutes.”

Regina practically sprinted behind them, Belle and Graham following instructions like  _ good _ network all-stars and Emma looked up nervously at Killian, Ruby’s arm still crossed in between them with her fingers wrapped around the microphone.

“Sorry,” she mumbled. “I just…”  
  
“I know,” he said softly. 

“Come on Ems,” Ruby said, hand falling on Emma’s shoulders. “Twenty minutes of pictures and autographs and then we can go pick Henry up from school. I’ll buy the ice cream this time.”  
  
Emma nodded slowly, almost smiling at Killian before following her producer off the side of the stage. He was half a step behind her again and his hand hurt – or it hurt where his hand should have been. 

They couldn’t talk during the photo-op – too many cameras and fans and on-air personalities to live up to – but Emma grinned at him as he pulled his chair out for her again with a smirk on his face. Her hand brushed over his left forearm again, just a breath away from his brace and he should have told her about the deal. Or thanked her for defending him in front of fans and cameras and several dozen recording devices.

And then maybe tell her that he absolutely wasn’t interested in being friends with her. 

Regina was right, he was an ass. And certainly not a gentleman. Liam was absolutely going to come back and haunt him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I told you guys lately that I love you? Because I totes do. I love you. And your reaction to this fic is the absolute best. I straight up show your comments to my husband. It's ridiculous. Anyway, you're all a delight and there's a ton of fic left and they'll make out real soon, I promise. 
> 
> Come flail with me on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	13. Chapter 13

She was wearing a witch's hat.

And she might actually kill Ruby.

A week after the Wine and Food Festival and Killian’s timely explanation for why Emma hadn’t been waiting with baited breath to walk onto the stage for the all-star panel, her producer had made it her life’s goal to make Emma go crazy.

And she’d done her best to play along – agreed to the Halloween-themed episode like she was goddamn _Sandra Lee_ or something and even sat through a meeting with Zelena about the possibility of getting her timeslot back if she did more of these _fun_ episodes.

But this was taking it too far. She was practically wearing a costume on TV and this wasn’t supposed to be a joke. This was supposed to be a semi-serious show that actually showed how to cook, not bring in witch’s hats and the best way to repurpose your kid’s leftover Halloween candy.

Emma missed her mark – the third time she’d done that so far – and Ruby groaned from behind the camera as Elsa yelled cut. “Emma!” Ruby said, voice filled with irritation and she did her best not to actually glare at her, yanking the hat off her head. “Come on, just once. Just once! You stand on the scotch tape and you talk about trick or treating and using chocolate and then we’ll be done.”  
  
She’d heard this speech twice before. And she still couldn’t seem to get it right.

“I know,” Emma mumbled.

“What’s the matter?”  
  
“This doesn’t seem a bit much to you?”  
  
“What’s a bit much?”   
  
“Rubes, I am wearing a witch’s hat. This is bordering dangerously close to absurd.”   
  
“No,” Ruby countered patiently, but there was a muscle ticking in her jaw. “This is festive. And will bring in viewers. Isn’t that the goal?”   
  
“Of course it is. But if I can’t bring in viewers on my own, what’s the point?”   
  
And there, Emma thought, was the crux of her problem. She’d never had trouble driving interest or an audience – the long line after the Wine and Food panel determined to get her autograph was proof of that – but this time change and the downward turn in numbers had done enough to shake her confidence just a bit.

They’d always come for her – even when she was cooking in actual restaurants. And now they were having to rely on hats and props and _gimmicks_ and Emma’s whole body ached with disappointment.

She was, always, her own worst critic and despite assurances from Ruby and Zelena and every member of her family – Emma felt like she had failed.

And the hat looked ridiculous with her hair.

“You are bringing in viewers,” Ruby argued. “Ones who are interested in Halloween theming. Come on, we’re almost done. Just give it a chance and hit your mark and then you can go home and finish Henry’s costume.”  
  
Emma sighed, rolling her eyes, but she knew Ruby was right. It was far from perfect and far from what she wanted, but if she needed to wear the stupid hat to get her timeslot and her show back, then she would wear the stupid hat.

“Fine,” she mumbled. “Run it again.”  
  
“Let’s go, El,” Ruby yelled over her shoulder, retreating back out of frame as Emma squinted underneath the studio lights.

“Now,” Elsa yelled – refusing ever to say _action_ because it was some kind of cliché and this was a cooking show, not a big-budget blockbuster. Emma pulled the hat back on top of her head, brushing her hair out of her eyes and hit her mark on the next try.

“That was perfect,” Ruby said, walking back into the kitchen and smiling at Emma. “Granted, it took you several dozen years to get it perfect, but we’ll take what we can get.”  
  
“Rude.”   
  
“Are you going later?”   
  
“To my brother and sister-in-law’s annual Halloween extravaganza?” Emma asked sarcastically. Ruby shrugged. “M’s would murder me if I didn’t go. Of course I’m going to go.”   
  
“What’s Henry doing?”

“Going trick or treating in Chelsea with a bunch of friends from school.”  
  
“And you’re cool with that?”   
  
Emma was absolutely _not_ cool with that – it had taken nearly a week of Henry asking and an actual phone call with Violet’s dad to ensure there was some parental supervision before she’d actually agreed to let him go. But he was twelve – as he so helpfully pointed out several times – and had friends and didn’t _want to sit in Uncle David’s apartment without any other kids around_ and Emma had eventually given in.

“I’m fine with it,” she lied.

“Sure,” Ruby laughed. “What are you going to wear?”  
  
“That’s a surprise.”   
  
“Spoilsport.”   
  
“It’s Henry’s fault,” Emma argued. “He hates spoilers.”   
  
“This isn’t a TV show.”   
  
“No, it’s life. That seems more important than a TV show.”   
  
“Deep,” Ruby laughed.

“I’m getting existential in my old age.”  
  
“Please, you’re practically a child,” Ruby contradicted as the crew around them deconstructed the very themed set.

“Yeah, with a twelve-year-old.”  
  
“You know people don’t care about that.”   
  
Emma narrowed her eyes, wondering where exactly Ruby was going with this, when her producer nodded over her shoulder. She spun on the spot – witch’s hat nearly flying off her head in the process – to find Killian Jones walking onto her set, still sporting an Iron Chef jacket and a very particular type of smirk that did several very particular things to Emma’s pulse.

“See,” Ruby continued, leaning forward to whisper in Emma’s ear. “I don’t think _he_ cares about that.”   
  
“Shut up.”   
  
“I’m just saying.”   
  
“And I’m just saying, shut up.”

Ruby laughed, straightening back up and Emma couldn't stop staring at Killian. He’d been as good as his word a few days before, dropping off cookies in the middle of her meeting with Zelena and Ruby and earning Emma a solid five minutes of questions from her suddenly very-interested and very pro-relationship producer. And she’d told herself the rest of the night that they were _friends_ and that was enough.

It sounded more and more stupid the more she said it.

“Hey Killian,” Ruby said. “Long time no see.”  
  
“Nice to see you again, Ruby.”

“You know, I’m a little jealous. No one’s ever baked cookies for me.”  
  
“They weren’t really for me,” Emma said, regretting joining the conversation as soon as she spoke. “Did Henry text you?” she asked, ignoring the noise Ruby made behind her and glanced up at Killian, blue eyes practically overwhelming her in the kitchen. “He was supposed to.”   
  
“He did. Asked for brownies next time.”

“You don’t have to do that.”  
  
“I know.”

She was still wearing the stupid hat. And Ruby hadn’t left yet. “What are you doing here?” Emma asked, trying to redirect the conversation to something she felt even remotely in control of. “I figured you’d be all themed out at The Jolly.”  
  
Ruby sounded like she was choking on air. Emma made a face at her over her shoulder and she _finally_ seemed to get the hint. “Uh, I’ve got to go,” she said. “Post-production meeting. Or something. I’ll see you later, Emma.”   
  
Emma nodded only looking back at Killian once she couldn’t hear Ruby’s heels on the linoleum floor anymore. “Sorry about that,” she said quickly, but Killian brushed her off even faster.

“Don’t worry about it, love. I knew I was taking your life in my hands a bit with the cookies before, but I wasn’t quite sure how else to get them to you.”  
  
“Henry really appreciated them. The team went nuts for them.”   
  
“So he said. I’m glad.”   
  
Emma grinned, fighting off the wave of butterflies she felt at the idea that this guy actually wanted to do things for her son. She should have been more worried about that. She should have been worried about Henry getting attached or what would happen if _this_ fell apart. And she couldn’t bring herself to.

Because she was getting attached too.

“So no theme then?” she asked a bit breathlessly. He shook his head, lower lip sticking out slightly and she wondered what it would be like to actually take two steps towards him and kiss him – hard.

That caught her by surprise.

He was impossibly good looking – she’d realized that as soon as she’d sat down at that very first meeting – but in the last few weeks he’d gotten under her skin and worked his way into her life and Henry’s life and she wanted to kiss him. A lot. Not because he was good looking, but because he seemed to care so goddamn much.

“Nah,” Killian answered, shaking Emma out of her thoughts. “Well, that’s not entirely true. There’s a theme. Just not one I’m in charge of. Halloween is strictly Ari’s territory. Has been since she started working at The Jolly. She’s recruited Eric since then and they’ve got a whole thing with reservations and a different menu and the whole nine yards. I’m not even cooking tonight. I just show up and try and give Roland as much candy as possible before Regina yells at me.”  
  
“Ari?”

“Oh, Ariel,” he said quickly. “Old nickname habits die hard.”  
  
Emma nodded, the bits of a plan forming in the back of her brain and, suddenly, she decided to get a bit reckless. It only terrified her slightly.

“You don’t have to cook tonight?” she asked, doing her best to keep her voice light. “Is that why you’re here? Trying to fill some time?”  
He pointed at the Iron Chef logo on his jacket, the teasing smile on his face doing something to her ability to stay standing. “I won, Swan. Again.”   
  
“Impressive.”   
  
“Always.”   
  
She licked her lips quickly and noticed Killian’s eyes dart down at that – maybe this wouldn’t be as difficult as she thought. “Then you’re all done?”   
  
“I didn’t run away from set, love,” he laughed. “I finished and heard you were still filming. Figured I’d ask about the cookie consumption in person. Why?”   
  
“What are you doing later?”   
  
His eyebrows sailed up his forehead so quickly Emma wondered if he could get whiplash from that. “What?” he asked, voice hoarse and she got a bit of extra confidence from that. If she kept him off his footing just a bit, then this wouldn’t be the most difficult thing she’d done in thirteen years.

“Later,” she repeated. “I mean I know you’ve got to be at The Jolly…”  
  
“I don’t have to be at The Jolly,” he interrupted quickly, eyes pulling away from her lips to meet hers straight and they were so blue and so full of _something_ that Emma nearly gasped.

“Oh, ok. Well, David and M’s have an annual Halloween party and it’s over-the-top and ridiculous and we all have to dress up, but it’s also kind of fun and maybe you’d like to go?”

He stared at her for what felt like several hours Emma felt her confidence deflate a little bit. “You know,” she added, “as friends?”  
  
His eyes flickered and she thought one side of his mouth ticked up, but then he was back to impassive stare and Emma bit her lip tightly. “You have to dress up?” he asked. That wasn’t the follow-up question she’d been expecting.

“I know it’s late notice.”  
  
“No, it’s fine, Swan. I was just confirming.”   
  
Emma nodded. “M’s won’t let anyone in the apartment if they’re not in costume. It’s a rule.”   
  
“Well, far be it from me to break the rules.”   
  
The nerves and the butterflies and the feeling like a fifteen-year-old with a crush rushed back and Emma twisted her mouth. “So…” she said slowly. “You want to go, then?”   
  
“I would love to go.”   
  
“Really?” She should work on her confidence more. Or get better at asking people out. As friends. Because they were friends. Mary Margaret was going to lose her mind when Killian walked into the apartment.

“I think I just said yes, Swan,” he grinned at her, taking a step forward and making his way into her space the same way he seemed to make his way into her life. Like he belonged there. “When?”  
  
“Like seven? A little after.”   
  
He nodded. “And where exactly am I going?” Oh. She hadn’t really considered that. Granted, she hadn’t really considered anything, but she wasn’t quite sure what to answer. “Swan?”

“I normally walk to their apartment,” she said, realizing she hadn’t really answered his question.

“Ok,” he answered, laughing softly. “Not sure that helps me.”  
  
“You could pick me up,” Emma cut in, eyes wide as she spoke and laid her metaphorical hopes on the metaphorical floor at his feet.

Killian tilted his head and she thought he was about to take a step back when his fingers wrapped around her wrist, seemingly out of instinct, like he was trying to keep his balance or something. She felt like she was going to fall over.

“If you want,” he said softly.

“I think I just did. Three blocks from The Jolly. Down,” she added before he could ask about the direction. “Like straight down the block.”  
  
“That seems fairly easy.”

Emma tried to breathe like a normal human being again, but that was proving more difficult than normal with his fingers wrapped around her wrist and his thumb drawing nonsensical patterns across her pulse point. “I’ve got all the faith in the world in such an impressive Iron Chef,” she said and she was mostly joking, but the look on Killian’s face made it seemed like she’d just written him a glowing review on the front page of _The New York Times._

Oh God, she was still wearing the stupid hat.

“Thank you, Swan,” he said softly and her heart thudded in her chest, like it was trying to push its way out of her body and announce that, despite the last thirteen years, it was still there and still very capable of functioning.

“I didn’t do anything,” Emma muttered.

“Kept me from having to deal with the absurd Halloween event happening at my restaurant.”  
  
“Wait until we get to David and M’s apartment. You don’t know absurd Halloween until you’ve been to this party.”   
  
“I’m looking forward to it.” And it sounded like a promise, much bigger than Halloween or baking cookies for Henry’s soccer team. Her heart beat even faster.

“I’m serious about the costume though,” Emma warned. “M’s won’t let you in. Even if you did win Iron Chef this afternoon.”  
  
“I can follow the rules, Swan,” he laughed, nodding towards the hat she was still somehow wearing. “What are you going as? Witch?”   
  
Emma shook her head quickly. “You’ll have to wait and see.”   
  
“What? You don’t even tell your own date what you’re dressing up as? What if I wanted to coordinate?”   
  
He seemed to realize what he’d said immediately, hand dropping away from her wrist and his eyes were almost entirely blue when Emma looked back up. She tried to smile – the word _date_ practically bouncing off the inside of her head.

“We don’t have to coordinate,” she said and her voice was doing that _stupid_ breathless thing again. “I hate when people do that.”   
  
“Noted. Still no clue though?”   
  
“You’ll just have to wait until you pick me up.”

“You’re a costume tease, Swan.”  
  
“I’m just trying to make sure you show.”

She should stop trying to make jokes. It wasn’t working. And the tension in the now abandoned kitchen studio was so thick Emma was positive she could have cut it with one of her very expensive knives.

“You don’t have to try and persuade me, love,” he said and his voice felt like one of those same expensive knives, moving into her and lingering in the oxygen she was desperately trying to get into her lungs. “I want to come.”  
  
And that did it.

He wanted. And Emma wanted. And she absolutely shouldn’t have used the word friends.

This was going to be a disaster.

Or the best night she’d had in years.

Emma nodded slowly, Killian’s eyes practically staring through her and she reached forward to grip his arm only realizing it was his left after she’d moved. He stared at it for a moment, smile inching across his face slowly, like he couldn’t believe she’d done that.

“I’ve got to go,” she said, drawing his eyes back up to her. “Henry’s going trick or treating with friends later and I promised I’d make sure the costume was finished.”  
  
“Of course.”   
  
“Seven o’clock?”   
  
Killian’s eyes dropped back to her hand, still wrapped around his forearm, and nodded. And then he smiled at her and Emma wasn’t sure she was even standing anymore. “Perfect,” he said.

* * *

“You have your phone?”

“Yeah.”  
  
“And you know where I’ll be.”   
  
“I know where Uncle David and Aunt Mary Margaret live.”   
  
Emma lowered her eyebrows at Henry, but he didn’t even react to her _mom look_ – instead he smiled knowingly at her and made a face. She felt like she was at distinct disadvantage when he did things like that.

“Relax, mom,” Henry sighed, grabbing the sword that went with his costume. Emma wasn’t certain if she should be encouraging costumes that came with plastic swords – something about violence and responsibility as an adult or _whatever_ – but Henry had been incredibly serious about the choice and she got the distinct impression that there was some sort of costume-based plan with Violet that he wasn’t telling her.

“It’s the first time you’re going out on Halloween by yourself,” Emma said, not for the first time. “I just want to make sure there’s a plan.”  
  
“There are plans for the plan. And it’s not really by myself. Violet’s dad is coming with us and there’s going to be like six other kids there.”   
  
Emma nodded – for as many times as she had asked Henry about the details for the night, he had told her the same thing. He could probably recite his answers by heart at this point. That didn’t do anything to stifle her nerves.

Although Emma wasn’t entirely positive if that was because Henry was going trick or treating by himself or because she was bringing Killian to the Halloween party in SOHO.

“You should go get changed,” Henry continued. “Killian’ll probably be here soon.”  
  
“You sure you don’t want me to bring you to Violet’s?”   
  
Henry was shaking his head before Emma had even finished talking. “You should go get changed,” he repeated.

“That didn’t answer my question.”  
  
“I know.” Emma pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes at her son who simply grinned at her. “It’s fine,” he said, dragging out the syllables in the words for emphasis. “You don’t have to worry about me.”   
  
And that did something very specific to Emma’s heart. She tugged Henry close, ignoring his quiet groan at this over-the-top display of affection in the middle of their living room. “You are the absolute best you know that,” she said into his hair.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Henry laughed. “Go change, mom. He said he was on his way like ten minutes ago.”  
  
“What?” The buzzer sounded – making Emma jump and Henry laugh again – and it was like her kid was some sort of soothsayer. “How’d you know that?”   
  
“Go. Change.”   
  
Emma made a face and Henry didn’t even blink, turning back towards the front door to, apparently, buzz in a ten-minutes-early Killian Jones. She bit her lip tightly, but moved when Henry glanced over his shoulders with a wide-eyed, expectant stare and tried not to trip over the dress when she put it on.

Strictly speaking, she wasn’t much for Halloween – her resistance to the themed episode a testament to that – but Mary Margaret was _obsessed_ , had been for as long as Emma could remember, and the annual Halloween party was actually something she looked forward to. She heard the front door open and Henry yelled something and Emma was smiling before she realized her mouth had moved, stomach flipping with nerves and anxiety and, maybe, even a bit of excited energy.

Emma glanced in the mirror one last time, tugging the braid she’d finished earlier over her shoulder, and walked back down the hallway.

“That’s not even fair!” Henry yelled, voice tinged with laughter and slightly out of breath. He was sprawled back across the couch, legs stretched out like he’d fallen over into the cushions, sword in one hand and a wide smile on his face.

Killian laughed in response, facing away from Emma as she came back into room and she had to bite her lip again to stop some sort of audible reaction to the sight of him. He was wearing all black – a long, leather jacket she could only begin to imagine where he got and a sword held in his right hand, pointed directly at Henry’s chest.

And Emma wasn’t entirely positive how she was supposed to deal with all of this.

“You need to learn how to parry better,” Killian laughed, back still facing her. He was standing with his feet apart – like they’d been swordfighting in the middle of her living room – and when he rested the blade of the fake sword on his shoulder, Emma didn’t know if she’d seen anything more attractive.

Henry rolled his eyes with all the drama his twelve-year-old face could handle and glanced over Killian’s shoulder to meet Emma’s gaze. “Mom, tell Killian he can’t cheat like that! It’s totally not fair. I would have won if he played by the rules.”  
  
Killian’s shoulders stiffened quickly when he realized Emma was behind him, spinning to stare at her with wide, blue eyes. The sword was still resting on his shoulder. “And what exactly are you supposed to be? Jack Sparrow?” Emma asked, eyes trailing over his body before she could stop herself.

It wasn’t her fault – everything just fit so well.

And God, was that a vest?

Fuck.

There was an actual scabbard hanging off his waist.

Killian smirked at her, pulling his left hand up to reveal a shiny, silver hook on the end of his wrist. “Jack Sparrow’s old news, Swan. I’m Captain Hook.”  
  
Emma’s laughter shook her whole body and Henry groaned from his spot on the couch. “And a cheater too!”   
  
“Pirate,” Killian shrugged. “What’d you expect?”   
  
Henry huffed and pushed himself off the couch, stabbing Killian’s side as he walked towards the door, grabbing his coat as he went. “You sure you don’t want me to bring you uptown?” Emma asked again and she was certain if Henry kept rolling his eyes, his face was going to get stuck that way.

“Mom,” he sighed dramatically, yanking the door open. “It is fine. Go. I’ll save you the Reese's, ok?”  
  
“Yeah, ok,” Emma said, trying not to feel too guilty. Henry didn’t seem to mind. “Have fun!” she yelled as he walked out the door.

“You too,” he answered, slamming the thing shut and leaving her, suddenly, alone in her apartment with Killian. Dressed as Captain Hook. With a sword in his hand and a bordering on absurd amount of leather on his body.

“He’ll be fine, Swan,” Killian said softly, practically making Emma jump out of the costume she had on.

“You think?” Killian nodded. “It’s just...this is the first time he’s not coming to the party and it _is_ Halloween in New York and, well, I worry.”   
  
“You don’t have to rationalize worrying about your son, love.” Emma looked at him, smiling slightly and ignoring the way her stomach continued to flip over that ridiculous costume. He grinned back at her – that slightly nervous, earnest one that seemed to work its way under her skin and get her to invite him to annual family Halloween parties. “Plus,” Killian added, twisting the handle of the sword in between his fingers. “He was super excited about it.”   
  
“What?”   
  
She should have realized it before – as soon as Henry said Killian was on his way to the apartment – but she’d been too nervous and worried and vaguely overwhelmed to put two and two together. Henry was texting Killian. Regularly.

Killian shrugged, eyes falling towards the absolutely ridiculous boots he had on. “He’s a very proficient texter,” he said softly. “I should have asked though. I can, uh, I can tell him not to anymore.”  
  
“No, no, that’s ok,” Emma answered quickly and Killian’s eyes practically flew to hers. “It’s kind of nice actually.”   
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“Well I don’t know that Henry knows another adult male other than David, so it seems like a pretty good thing.”   
  
“He doesn’t talk to…”   
  
Killian trailed off and Emma knew he _wanted_ to run his hand through his hair. Instead he moved his left hand – hook – to the back of his neck, running the rounded metal over the skin and it was so absurd and so _attractive_ that Emma couldn’t even bring herself to be frustrated with him for pushing.

“No,” she said, answering his unspoken question. “He doesn’t.”  
  
“Ah.”   
  
“Yeah.”   
  
And she almost told him – could hear Ruby’s voice in her head listing all the reasons she should – but Emma hadn’t done this in such a long time, hadn’t let anyone in _ever_ and she wasn’t even entirely positive how to do it, let alone try to.

They stood there for several minutes, rocking back and forth and trying to overcome their respective embarrassment and Emma was worried they’d never actually be able to get out of the apartment, when Killian finally started talking again.

“And who are you supposed to be, Swan?” he asked, taking a step towards her – she watched his boots move across the hardwood floor, the sound echoing in her ears.

“I’m Rapunzel,” she said, lifting her head up to meet his slightly amused gaze. “For the fifth year running.”  
  
“That’s an impressive streak.”   
  
“M’s dressed up as Rapunzel’s evil mother one year and we had to match and it’s a really impressive, expensive costume, so I’ve just kind of stuck with it since then. It drives her nuts too, but that’s kind of more or an added bonus.”   
  
“That’s diabolical of you, Swan.”   
  
“Lazy also seems like a good word, but I’ll take diabolical too.”   
  
“I only met her the one time, but your sister-in-law doesn’t exactly seem like the kind of person who would want to dress up like a villain.”   
  
“She said it was ironic.”   
  
“Of course,” Killian laughed. “What is Halloween without a bit of costume-based irony?”

“Exactly,” she said, eyeing the hook. “Where did you even get a hook?”

“You’re not the only one who’s spent the last few years being forced into celebrations and repeat costumes, love.”

And that did it – that got rid of the nerves, or at least most of them, that one sentence and that one similarity and the tiny, little anxious smile on his face.

She could do this.   
  
She could trust him – at least for tonight. Because that one sentence proved what she’d been suspicious of for weeks – he _understood_.

“You want to go? It might be easier if we take a cab. I’d rather not go through a Subway turnstile in this dress.”  
  
Killian laughed softly, smile widening across his face as he nodded at her. “Whatever you want to do, Swan.”   
  
“Ok,” she said, feeling like _that_ one sentence meant a lot more than what it sounded like. “Let’s go.”

She hadn’t actually told Mary Margaret and David that she was bringing Killian to the party and the nerves that had dissipated with his smile and texting Henry and that _stupid_ costume reappeared in full force as soon as the cab pulled up to the apartment building on Wooster Street.

“You alright, love?” he asked, glancing towards her as he handed the driver the fare. Emma nodded slowly, opening her mouth to argue about paying for the fifteen-block drive, but Killian shook his head quickly, sliding out of the seat and holding out one hand for her.

Gentleman.

Jeez.

“I’m fine,” Emma promised, only lying slightly, and he looked at her skeptically as she made her way towards the door of the building. The door buzzed open nearly as soon as she pressed the button and Killian’s soft laugh behind her seemed to find its way into every single inch of her body. His hand fell on the small of her back – as it had become apt to do – while they walked down the hallway.

“You’re late,” David yelled from the other end of the hall, eyes falling on Emma immediately and then widening to almost impossibly-large size when he realized she wasn’t alone.

“Not really,” Emma argued. “Like five minutes. If even.”  
  
David’s gaze had fallen on Killian’s hand – still on Emma’s back – and she tried not to groan at the ridiculousness of it all, doing her best to ask him _not to be a stupid, overprotective idiot_ in the middle of the hallway.

He didn’t get the message.

“I didn’t know you were bringing anyone,” David said pointedly and Killian’s hand fell away from Emma like he’d been stabbed with a plastic sword again.

“I didn’t know I had to ask permission.”  
  
“What’s going on?” Mary Margaret asked, head leaning around the doorframe with interest. She beamed when she saw Killian. “I don’t think we’ve been officially introduced,” she said, sliding past David and sticking her hand out towards the costumed storybook pirate next to Emma. “I’m Mary Margaret Nolan, I’m Emma’s sister-in-law.”   
  
“Sister for all intents and purposes,” Emma muttered, glancing up at her and smiling thankfully.

“That too,” Mary Margaret said.   
  
“It’s nice to see you again,” Killian answered, taking her hand in his. “And be officially introduced.”   
  
David coughed loudly and Emma didn’t even try to mask her eyeroll. “Killian,” she said quickly, voice filled with frustration, “this is my brother, David Nolan. David, this is Killian Jones.”   
  
“I’ve seen you on TV,” David said, extending his own hand.

“A lot of people have,” Killian answered.

“And you think that’s a good thing?”  
  
Killian's eyes darted towards Emma and she took a deep breath through her nose. “David,” she muttered, but Killian’s hand came back to rest on her back and she swallowed the bevy of vaguely sarcastic comments she had planned for her brother.

“I think it’s good for my restaurant. Exposure and all of that.”  
  
“Speaking of which,” Mary Margaret cut in. “You don’t have to be at the restaurant tonight? A holiday on the weekend, seems kind of like prime time.”   
  
“Swan asked me the same question,” Killian laughed – both Mary Margaret and David’s eyebrows practically jumping into their respective hairlines at hearing the nickname. “But, no, I don’t. My hostess and sous chef have their own annual Halloween party and they commandeer The Jolly every year to host it.”   
  
Mary Margaret nodded, smile still on her face, but David kept glancing between Emma and Killian and the one hand on her back. “Well, I’m glad you could join us,” she said, the picture-perfect hostess.

“I’m glad I could be here too.”  
  
“So, uh, we going to go inside?” Emma asked. “Or were you guys planning on holding the party out here?” Mary Margaret rolled her eyes – looking like Emma was a teenager she was passably amused by – while David crossed his arms tightly. “And who are you guys supposed to be?”   
  
“We’re Snow White and Prince Charming,” Mary Margaret answered.

“Obviously.”  
  
“There are apples inside. You know to really drive the costume-point home.”   
  
“Naturally,” Emma laughed, pushing by David to, finally, walk into the jam-packed apartment. She spotted Ruby and Dorothy in the back corner – by the punch Granny made each year, more alcohol than juice – and Emma was positive half the teaching staff at Henry’s school was also crammed into the apartment. There were at least half a dozen police officers dressed as police officers there as well as one very impressive giant costume on a guy Emma thought David had once introduced as Anton.

Killian’s hand hadn’t left her back the entire time they walked across the living room, finding themselves in front of the punch before Emma realized she was walking that direction. “Nice outfit,” Ruby mumbled, voice jumbled just a bit as she tried to talk and drink punch at the same time. “What’s this? Five years running?”  
  
“I have literally only known you for three years.”

“There are stories about your Halloween laziness, Emma.”

“Consistency.”

“Hey, Killian,” Ruby said suddenly, voice getting louder like she’d just realized he was standing there.   
  
“Hey, Ruby,” he laughed. “What exactly are you drinking?”   
  
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”  
  
“I think I just proved that.”   
  
“It’s punch,” Emma said, shaking her head. Sober Ruby could already be difficult enough, slightly drunk Ruby was bordering on insubordinate. “Incredibly alcoholic punch that Ruby’s grandmother made.”   
  
“Your grandmother?” Killian asked, voice shaking as he tried not to laugh.   
  
“You got a problem with my grandmother?” Ruby responded and Emma silently thanked the powers that be that Dorothy was standing next to her, quickly pulling the half-drunk cup out of her hands.

“I have absolutely no problem with your grandmother. Merely professional curiosity about the consistency of her punch.”  
  
Ruby stared at him for a few moments, eyes narrowing slightly as she processed what exactly he’d said – and then she laughed, loudly enough to draw a few curious glances from costumed and legitimate police officers. “That’s right,” she said. “You’re like some kind of fancy bartender aren’t you? Emma told me all about that.”   
  
She wished the floor would swallow her and then maybe give her a bit more self confidence. Killian’s hand squeezed the back of her dress slightly – some sort of unspoken message that he wasn’t intimidated by Emma’s drunk producer. “I am like some kind of fancy bartender,” he answered. “Or I at least like to pretend to be.”   
  
“Well that’s the point of today isn’t it?” Dorothy asked. “You get to pretend to be or do whatever you want? That’s half the fun of Halloween.”

“So I’ve heard,” Killian said softly and Emma couldn’t breathe.

“Hey,” she said, turning towards him so quickly she barely kept her balance, “I’m going to go talk to my brother real quick, you going to be ok here?”  
  
“Of course, Swan. I’ve got a punch to figure out anyway.” Emma nodded once – and resisted the very real urge to do something dumb like kiss him on the cheek before she walked away.

She found David in the kitchen, a beer in his hand and _look_ on his face. His head snapped up when he heard her shoes on the floor and he twisted his mouth, a patented look of apology without actually saying the words.

“You should probably tell Killian,” Emma said, reaching to grab the bottle out of his hand and take a sip, leaning against the counter next to him.

“Yeah, but you’re here now.”  
  
“Why were you a jerk?”   
  
“I wasn’t a jerk.”   
  
“You were one hundred percent a jerk. A week ago you were all about this and how good it could be. What happened?”   
  
“I did some work.”   
  
Emma tilted her head, lowering her eyebrows in confusion. “What? About what?”   
  
“Killian.”   
  
“Excuse me?”

David shrugged slightly and took a very long drink, placing the now-empty bottle on the counter before turning back to look at Emma. “Well you told me you didn’t know much about him and I figured I might be able to do something about that.”  
  
“You’re not making any sense.”   
  
“I ran a background check on him.”   
  
Emma blinked and then blinked again and then felt her mouth fall open. “What? Why? How?”   
  
“Those are all things I wanted to know about your guy.”   
  
“He’s not my guy,” Emma mumbled, but David chuckled darkly under his breath.

“He know that?”  
  
“Jeez, David, laying it on a little thick aren’t you? I mean come on, this is absurd. You’ve never done this before.”

“That’s because I wasn’t a detective when you were dating Neal. If I’d been able to run a background check on him then I absolutely would have. And it’s not like there’s been a ton of other guys around since then either.”  
  
Emma’s jaw snapped shut and she felt the anger shoot through her veins, hot as fire and making her practically see red – and not just on the absurd cape her brother was wearing in the middle of his kitchen.

He _never_ talked about Neal, knew it was an off-limit topic, normally, understood Emma’s aversion to even his name. But there he was talking about Neal and Emma’s distinct lack of anything more than a few one-night stands when Henry was staying with them.

“That’s low,” she said softly.

“I know.”  
  
“Why?”   
  
“Because you didn't know anything about this guy and I could get you answers he wasn’t willing to talk about. You want to know how he lost his hand? Because I know. And I know why he left the Navy. And, probably, who that woman tattooed on his arm is. Oh, and I also know that he just put a deposit down on a warehouse in Gowanus with some real estate guy the department has investigated for fraud before.”  
  
Emma’s head was spinning.

She reached her hand forward, gripping the counter until her knuckles turned white and tried to come up with something to think about that would keep her standing upright. She trusted Killian. But she also trusted David.

And now she wasn’t sure what to think.

“If Killian wanted to tell me any of that, he would have done it already,” Emma hissed.   
  
“It doesn’t bother you that he hasn’t?”   
  
It should. And it kind of did – but not because he was guarded or secretive or _whatever_. But because Emma wanted to know and she couldn’t remember the last time that happened.

“You know the brother is dead,” David said and Emma’s hand slid off the counter, the corner of it scraping against her palm.

“What?”  
  
David nodded. “Yeah. In the line of duty.”   
  
“When?”

“About ten years ago.”

She tried to do the math in her head – he was thirty-five now, he’d told her that during the _whatever_ at The Jolly – so ten years ago he’d just finished his required stint after graduating from the Academy. And then, according to David, Liam had died. And he started working at The Jolly Roger eight years ago.

He left the Navy after Liam died – no, she corrected herself quickly, _because_ Liam died.

“Fuck,” Emma mumbled, tugging on the end of the braid she’d spent nearly twenty minutes trying to perfect earlier that night. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”  
  
“Are you having an aneurysm?” David asked. “What’s wrong with you?”

“What else did you find out? When Liam died did you see who were the other officers on the boat? Or however it works?”  
  
David looked her speculatively, eyes narrowing. “How do you know his brother’s name was Liam?”   
  
“That is so not important now.”   
  
“I think you already know the answer to your question,” David sighed. “Lieutenant Killian Jones saved twenty men on the USS Shiloh when a hurricane ravaged the Pacific corridor ten years ago. He didn’t, however, save his brother. Captain Liam Jones was reported drowned after trying to save a crewmen who was trapped above deck during the storm.”   
  
Emma squeezed her eyes shut – wondering how much punch she could drink without looking suspicious – and nodded slowly, the weight of David’s background check falling into the pit of her stomach like a 200-pound weight.

“Doesn’t explain why you were being a dick, though,” she whispered, keeping her eyes closed.

“I think he should tell you things.”  
  
“I think he should get to tell me whatever he wants on his own time. That’s how friendship works.”   
  
“And that’s what this is?” Emma opened her eyes, glaring at David with enough intensity to make him take a step back.

“Yes.”  
  
“At the risk of repeating myself, does he know that?”

“Don’t be a dick to him again tonight, ok?” Emma asked, walking out of the kitchen. She didn’t meet Mary Margaret’s questioning gaze from the other side of the room – near the punch and Ruby and Killian – as she swung open the door and retreated to the silence of the now-empty hallway.

She leaned against the wall as soon as she heard the door slam shut behind her, pulling her legs up and wrapping her arms around her knees.

Emma’s head still felt like it was spinning.

He hadn’t told her Liam was dead and, if Emma was being honest, she’d simply assumed Killian’s brother was still in the Navy, would maybe show up at The Jolly one night, even looked forward to maybe meeting him. And now David’s words were ringing in her ears and she felt like she might actually cry – which would have been ridiculous normally, but felt even more absurd while wearing a Rapunzel costume.

The door swung open again – the hinges in desperate need of oil or whatever you used for squeaky hinges – and Emma looked up, fully prepared for a repentant David or curious Mary Margaret in front of her. She wasn’t ready for Killian and the two glasses of punch he had in his hand.

“You kind of ran out of there, Swan,” he said, crouching down to hand her one of the glasses.

“I prefer to see it as moving with purpose.”  
  
He scoffed and put the other glass on the floor, resting his hand on the ancient carpet until he was sitting next to her, hand just a few inches away. “And what exactly was your purpose?”   
  
“Not punching David in the face.”   
  
“Because of earlier? Don’t worry about that, love. I’m perfectly capable of dealing with overprotective brothers. You did, after all, warn me he had a tendency to do that.” Emma bit her lip and stared at the opposite wall. She tugged on hair again and felt Killian’s surprised gaze land on her fingers. “Unless that’s not what it was about,” he added.

Open book.

“It wasn’t.”  
  
“Then what was it about?”   
  
“You remember I told you David is a detective?” Killian nodded. “Well he’s also apparently in the habit of abusing those privileges because he just told he ran a background check on you.”   
  
“What?” Killian’s back visibly stiffened and his head snapped towards Emma. “Why?”   
  
“Because he’s an overprotective idiot who deserved to get punched in the middle of his own Halloween party.”

“You don’t have to defend my honor, love.”  
  
“Maybe I wanted to.”   
  
His eyes flickered with something that vaguely resembled want and Emma wondered, again, what it would be like to kiss him. “What exactly did he find out?”   
  
“A lot.”   
  
“Tax dollars at work.”   
  
Emma laughed sarcastically. “I told him I didn’t want to know. You should get to tell me in your own time.”   
  
“Thank you, Swan,” he said, voice flush with the kind of sincerity that made Emma trust him in the first place.

“Don’t thank me quite yet.”  
  
“Why?”   
  
“David’s got a very big mouth.”   
  
“About?” Emma took a deep breath and bit her lip again. “Swan?”   
  
“He told me what you did,” she said, rushing over the words. “And what happened to Liam.”

Killian was on the opposite side of the hallway as soon as she said his brother’s name, hand resting on the wall and the tension so obvious between his shoulders Emma couldn’t help but wonder if it actually hurt to stand like that.

He took a deep breath and ran his hand through his hair before turning back around to look at Emma and if she wasn’t already sitting on the floor she may have fallen over when she saw the sheer amount of _emotion_ in his eyes. “That’s why I don’t want them to call me captain,” he said softly, boot dragging across the carpet.

Emma nodded, not quite sure what to say. He kept talking instead. “Liam could have been an admiral, probably would have ended up there if he wasn’t so stupid and honorable and determined to save everyone. He didn’t make sense. He was too...everything. He took care of me, you know.”  
  
“Older brothers have a tendency to do that.”

“No, that’s not what I mean,” Killian said, shaking his head and walking back towards Emma until the toes of his boots nearly touched her heels. “I mean he raised me. He was eight years older than me and the most goddamn responsible human being to ever walk the planet, so when my mom died, he made sure I stayed out of foster care and the system and took care of me. Got stationed in New York so we didn’t have to move.”

Emma exhaled loudly, pushing herself back up the wall and tugging her hair back over her shoulder. “You’re lucky,” she said softly.

“What?”  
  
“To have not ended up in the system. It’s not a good way to grow up.”   
  
“I don’t understand.”   
  
“You’re not curious why David and I have different last names?”   
  
“Of course I am,” he grinned at her, stepping closer again until she could practically _feel_ him against her. “But I said I wouldn’t push.”   
  
“And I appreciate that,” Emma muttered, glancing up at him from underneath her eyelashes to find him still smiling at her. And, all things considered, she couldn’t quite figure out how she was still comfortable and willing to trust him in the middle of that hallway. Probably because he kept looking at her like that.

She took a deep breath, pressing her lips together before she dove into the deep end of depressing childhood backstories.

“I was twelve years old when David found me in Portland. I’d run away from the latest foster home they’d shipped me off to. The family said I stole the money they’d saved for vacation and, I mean, it was a total lie, but it was enough for the state to consider moving me back into the group home and I just couldn’t quite cope with that. So I ran. It was Thanksgiving weekend and it was freezing and David’s mom had brought him up to Portland to go Christmas shopping. He found me shivering in the alley behind Filene’s Basement. He brought me home. And I never really left.

Mrs. Nolan officially adopted me two years later after more red tape than I knew existed in the entire state of Maine and David stayed in-state for college because he knew I’d freak out if he left. I’ve got a bit of an abandonment complex, you see.”  
  
Killian nodded slowly, hand ghosting over the side of Emma’s hip – he pulled it away before his fingers landed on the dress, like he was nervous she’d run if he touched her. She wouldn’t have. She wished he would.

She also didn’t say any of that out loud.   
  
“I’m glad you didn’t punch him,” he said softly, words making their way into the space between her ribs, settling there with a very specific sense of contentment she hadn’t felt in a very long time – or possibly ever.

“Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah,” Killian nodded again. “He’s like some kind of hero in there. Saving the princess from the system.”   
  
“So are you,” Emma said quickly, words falling out of her mouth with ease. Killian stepped back, nearly tripping over his boots in his determination to get away from Emma and that contentment she’d felt just a few minutes before was replaced with a ball of anxiety that seemed to weigh roughly the equivalent of the entire planet.

“What?”

“I just mean, what you did. After, um, after Liam. I know about that too. You’re a hero too.”  
  
“That’s a very efficient background check.”

“David’s nothing if not efficient.”

“I don’t know if that’s true,” he said. “Not David. Me. I just did what I had to. Liam, well, Liam would have been disappointed if I hadn’t.”  
  
“He’d be proud of you.”   
  
“You don’t know that.”   
  
“I’ve got a hunch.”   
  
“That’s because you didn’t let your brother tell you the rest of the background check. There’s some not-so-ideal moments in there too.”   
  
“And you can tell me or not tell me in your own time. I’ve got my own not-so-ideal moments,” Emma said, eyes falling back to the patterned carpet and thoughts of Neal and the last time she _trusted_ someone flashing through her mind. “But you’re a pretty unqualified success, Killian. And background check or not, I think Liam would be proud.”   
  
He was staring at her like he’d never seen anything quite like her, stepping back into her space, seemingly, out of instinct and his hand fell on her hip without a word. “It’s just a restaurant, love,” he said, voice dropping low and Emma resisted the urge to move. Her skin felt like it was on fire under his hand.

“A really good one,” she countered. “That should probably consider putting those cookies on the actual menu.”  
  
“So many compliments.”   
  
“Just facts.”   
  
“Ah, well, management will take your suggestion under consideration. Maybe they’ll think about it for the very important reservation on the books in a week and a half.”

Emma’s eyebrows dropped and she nearly pulled away from his hand, but his fingers tightened around her hip, seemingly picking up confidence as the smirk on his face grew more pronounced. “You didn’t?” Emma asked.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”  
  
“David and M’s anniversary is in a week and a half.”   
  
“That so? She didn’t mention that when she asked about the date.”   
  
“When did you even do this? Are you texting her now, too?”   
  
“No,” Killian laughed. “But you were in the kitchen and Ruby and her girlfriend left to go talk to her apparently vaguely alcoholic grandmother and Mary Margaret took pity on my solitary self in front of the punchbowl.”

“I’m sorry I abandoned you.”  
  
“You didn’t, Swan. And Mary Margaret is a perfectly good conversationalist.”   
  
“How did you end up on the topic of reservations?”

“She mentioned the date, asked if it would be possible and I called Ari.”  
  
“You interrupted her Halloween party?”   
  
“It is my restaurant,” he laughed. “There should be some sort of rules about that.”   
  
“And you got them a reservation? A week and a half in advance for a restaurant that’s turning people away six months from now? Seems awfully convenient.”   
  
Killian beamed at her, hand squeezing slightly as the fabric of Emma’s dress bunched in between his fingers. “It is my restaurant,” he repeated. “And maybe I was looking for something out of it.”   
  
“I didn’t know you were all that interested in karma.”   
  
“I’m not.”

He dropped his hand, smirking at her and doing something _absurd_ with his eyebrows while he dragged his fingers over his mouth. Emma waited for him to say something else, heart beating so hard in her chest she wasn’t sure how Killian couldn’t hear it in the middle of the hallway.

“Thank you for doing that,” she said. “Above and beyond the call of friendship duty.”  
  
She knew her voice had betrayed her as soon as she met his gaze, one eyebrow pulled up his forehead when she used the word friendship. “Yuh huh,” he said softly. “And that’s all your family’s happiness is worth to you? Even on their anniversary?”   
  
“Yeah, that’s what the _thank you_ was for,” Emma shot back, ends of her mouth ticking up into a sarcastic smile.

That didn’t last long.

She could see his chest moving, the steady beat of his breathing acting like some sort of metaphorical anchor in front of her. And the smile was gone – hers and his – as Killian’s eyes fell to her lips, making Emma’s heart feel like it had actually stopped beating.

“Please,” she muttered, trying desperately to keep her voice steady. “You couldn't handle it.”

Killian’s eyes hadn't moved away from her lips and that smirk should be criminal. “Perhaps you're the one who couldn't handle it.”

Emma was breathing through her mouth – her chest felt like it was _heaving_ at this point, but she couldn’t stop herself, couldn’t think of anything except how much she trusted him and _wanted_ him and she felt her feet moving as soon as his head tilted, body moving slightly as he readjusted his weight on his feet. And then her hands reached out and her eyes widened and she heard him take a deep breath as her fingers wrapped around the collar of the leather jacket he’d worn for _her_ and, of course, it was like this.

Of course.

He froze against her and Emma briefly wondered if she had completely misread the situation, that they were _friends_ or something stupid like that, some dumb excuse she’d come up with so she wouldn’t kiss him – which was exactly what she was doing.

Her lips moved against his, hand moving into his hair like it belonged there and it took less than a full second for Killian to respond, his entire body pressing against hers in the middle of the hallway.

Emma hadn’t let go of the jacket – nails digging into the leather like she was trying to use it as leverage – pressing up on tiptoes to reach him easier while his hand fell away from her hip. And she almost groaned at the loss of it, but then his mouth moved against hers and his tongue flashed across her lip and his hand moved into _her_ hair, pulling her even closer against him.

Killian’s other hand moved back around her waist, holding her up and Emma felt the hook – God there was a hook – against her back and she couldn’t breathe or think except to wonder why they hadn’t done this before.

Of course it was like this – frantic and emotional and absolutely overwhelming – which was exactly how Emma had felt since she’d walked into the network conference room and he stared at her for the entire meeting.

Killian made a noise in the back of his throat, tugging on her lip with her teeth and Emma thought maybe she’d have a chance to breathe, but then he moved back, hand falling out of her hair and back onto her hip and he kissed her again and nothing had ever been quite like this.

And, maybe, that was the problem.

Because then Emma considered that and what _that_ meant and her mind seemed to catch up with her lips. She pulled herself away – ignoring the way it felt to not be kissing him again – and met Killian’s eyes immediately.

And he looked exactly how she felt, shoulders moving quickly as he tried to even out his breathing, the back of his hair sticking up from where Emma had run her fingers through it. He looked wrecked.

Emma felt it.

“That was…” he said, voice cracking as he rocked back onto his heels.

“A one-time thing,” Emma answered, cutting him off before she drowned in every emotion she was feeling. Killian blinked, mouth dropping open in surprise and Emma nearly kissed him again, but then her mind caught up and she retreated behind the walls and tried to ignore how disappointed he looked. “Don’t follow me. Wait like five minutes or something before you come back inside ok?”

She thought she saw him nod, but she was already halfway down the hallway before she’d really even finished doling out post-makeout instructions. Emma swung open the door to Mary Margaret and David’s apartment, plastering a smile on her face as she walked in a straight line towards the punch.

She hadn’t gone very far – couldn’t when doing that would require her to answer questions she didn’t want to – but Emma knew she’d still managed to do what she always did. She’d run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys. Guys. You are an endless source of delight and fantastic'ness and I adore all of you. So, you know, don't kill me. They'll figure their nonsense out soon. They will. They've got to - they've got to film Chopped. 
> 
> Always, @laurnorder is a HERO who reads so many words and makes sure everything is on track and she's the best. Come flail with me on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	14. Chapter 14

He liked Marco. 

He just wasn’t sure what Marco was doing working for Robert Gold. Or with Robert Gold. Killian should be more aware of the specifics. 

It was his restaurant. 

Or his restaurant expansion. 

Or  _ whatever. _

“Mr. Jones?” Marco asked and Killian spun on the spot, eyes going wide at the slightly nervous expression on the old man’s face. “Did you hear me?”  
  
He hadn’t. He hadn’t heard a word the man had said. That kept happening. Ariel was going crazy. Killian was positive he heard her mutter something about  _ just call her already, jeez _ when she walked out of the kitchen the night before – ignoring his near-demand for her to get out of the room before he pushed her out. 

But he wasn’t entirely certain. 

Because he hadn’t really been listening. 

And hadn’t been for the last two weeks. 

Not since Emma Swan had grabbed his jacket and kissed him in the middle of the hallway just outside her brother and sister-in-law’s apartment. 

He was a mess.

“Marco, we talked about this,” Killian said, trying to smile convincingly at the contractor in front of him. “No more, Mr. Jones.”

The man nodded slowly, arms crossed and a wary smile on his face. “Still didn’t answer my question though.”  
  
“I absolutely was not listening.”   
  
“That seems to be a trend.”   
  
Killian narrowed his eyes at him – ignoring how right a man who’d known him for less than a month was. “What were you asking me?”   
  
“Whether or not you wanted to keep the bars on the window in the far corner or if you wanted me to order new glass.”   
  
Killian glanced up at the windows in question and pressed his lips together tightly. He didn’t know what to do – and he ignored the way that feeling seemed unequivocally tied to how he didn’t know what to do about  _ Emma. _  He didn’t need to worry about that now. 

He had a restaurant expansion to oversee and another all-star competition to get ready for. They were filming  _ Chopped _ the next day. 

That also may be why he wasn’t listening to anyone. Killian was nervous – and he didn’t like it. At all.

He should have called her. 

He should have said something. Anything. Everything. He should have told her about the restaurant and Gold and Milah and owned up to all the things he was certain her brother had found in his background check. 

He drank a lot of rum instead and refused to listen to anyone when they talked. 

“Take the bars out Marco,” Robin said, walking into the restaurant with a six pack under his arm and a frustrated look on his face. “We’re trying to run a restaurant here, not a prison.”  
  
Marco glanced questioningly at Killian. “Yeah, that’s cool,” he said. “Go ahead and order the new glass tomorrow morning.”   
  
“Will do,” Marco agreed. “I’ll let Mr. Gold know and we can move on from there.”   
  
“How do you know, Mr. Gold?” Killian asked, Robin dropping the case on the floor in the corner of his eye. 

Marco’s eyes darkened slightly and Killian was positive he sighed – but he still wasn’t doing a very good job of listening, so he couldn’t be certain. “He hired me for a job a long time ago,” he said.    
  
“Doing?”   
  
“Construction work.”   
  
“No, I figured,” Killian pushed, taking a step towards him. “I mean how did you find him? Or how did he find you?   
  
“Oh,” Marco said softly, dragging one foot along the dusty floor of the warehouse. “Mr. Gold’s always been very good at finding the people he needs when he needs them. You know he owns almost a dozen buildings throughout Manhattan.”   
  
“I didn’t.”   
  
Marco nodded and Killian glanced at Robin, already pulling apart the end of the case, yanking a beer out and popping open the top. “Across the city,” Marco continued. “He’s been building it up for years.”   
  
“Why?”   
  
“I don’t understand.”   
  
“Why?” Killian repeated. “What’s he trying to accomplish?”

“You haven’t figured it out yet?” Killian tried to ignore the frustration surging through his entire body, pressing his lips together tightly and simply raising his eyebrows at Marco. The man sighed softly and shook his head. “Gold wants power. He wants to be the best. And he’s willing to buy up half the city to feel like he is. There were some questions about the way he did his work in Manhattan, rumors and investigations and things like that, but nothing really ever came of it. I don’t think the police could actually find anything. But I always got the impression that’s why he was trying to move out to Brooklyn. Start over in a new borough, as it were.”  
  
Killian’s teeth tugged on the inside of his lip and he chanced a glance at Robin – already drinking one of the bottles of beer he had apparently brought with him to an active construction site. “Got it,” he muttered. 

And he did. 

And to some extent he understood. 

He understood the desire to be the best, to prove  _ something _ to some sort of unspoken villain. He felt it every goddamn day – like he had to prove he wasn’t just the kind of person who’d walk away from responsibility and rules and regulations and disappoint his dead brother. 

_ He’d be proud of you. _

Emma’s voice echoed in his head – not for the first time in the last two weeks – and Killian knew Marco was staring at him warily. She couldn’t know – couldn’t be certain  _ how _ Liam would feel, but somewhere deep inside Killian, he hoped she was right. 

He needed her to be right. 

And he needed Gold not to be the asshole he strongly suspected he was. 

“If there’s not anything else you want to talk about,” Marco said slowly, “I think I’m going to head home.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Killian muttered distractedly, fingers wrapped around his brace and thoughts racing as loudly as the tide against the rocks outside. Marco nodded, eyes darting to Robin before he stuck his hands in his pockets and walked out the makeshift door at the front of the restaurant, half covered in plastic and caution tape. 

Killian stood in the middle of the room, hand tightening around his forearm until it practically hurt, only moving when Robin coughed softly behind him. 

“Not a word,” Killian mumbled, walking towards the windows in question. "Don't say a single word."

Robin followed him, two more bottles of beer in his hand and he tossed one at Killian without saying anything. “I haven’t,” Robin shot back, proving himself wrong with one sentence. “You know, except that.”   
  
“Sure.”   
  
“I think taking the bars off is a good idea.”   
  
“So you mentioned.”   
  
“I also think you should relax.”   
  
“See,” Killian said, voice dropping low as he flipped open the top on the top of the bottle in his hand, “this is talking. These are words. Which is exactly what I told  
you not to do.”   
  
Robin didn’t miss a beat, shooting Killian a glare as he jumped onto the window ledge and crossed his legs in one quick movement. “And you’re proving my point.”   
  
“What do you want?”   
  
“I want you to tell me why you’re so worried about Gold. And also why Roland is nervous to talk to you.”   
  
“What?”   
  
Killian’s head snapped towards his friend – nearly dropping the stupid craft beer he was positive Robin had paid too much money for. It had, over the last two weeks, become a bit of a trend. The entire staff at The Jolly had given him a five-foot radius for the last few days, refusing to ask about anything that wasn’t somehow directed related to the food and even Regina had cut back on the e-mails about the next all-star event. 

He knew they were all nervous he was one wrong syllable away from blowing up, but he hadn’t realized Roland had picked up on it. And that might have made his breath catch in his throat and his stomach constrict. 

And he wished Emma hadn’t run away all over again. 

“He asked me what you were so upset about two days ago,” Robin continued. “And what he could do to help.”   
  
“You’ve raised a far too generous kid,” Killian groaned. 

“He likes you for some reason.”   
  
“Yeah, I noticed that. What did you tell him?”   
  
“He figured it out.”   
  
“What?” 

“He figured it out,” Robin repeated. “Asked if this was about  _ the lady at The Jolly with pretty hair _ . We’re still trying to get him to remember how names work.”   
  
Killian barked out a laugh and took a long drink – it was absolutely overpriced. “Tell him to stop being so smart.”   
  
“Tell him yourself.”   
  
“I will later tonight.”   
  
“Good,” Robin agreed. “So, if I ask whether or not it’s actually about the lady at The Jolly with pretty hair are you going to kill me?” Killian groaned again, resting the empty beer bottle on his side – he wasn’t certain how he’d finished that so quickly. “I’ll take that as a yes, then,” Robin muttered. 

“Nah, I won’t kill you,” Killian said, staring at his feet. “Question your bravery at approaching a subject I’ve spent the last two weeks trying to ignore, but definitely not kill you.”   
  
“Why are you trying to ignore it?”   
  
“Because she is.”   
  
“I don’t understand.”   
  
Killian rolled his head back, twisting his neck slightly until he actually heard it crack and ran his hand over his face, pressing his fingers into his jaw harder than normal, like that would help redirect some of his pain and frustration. It didn’t. It just kind of hurt. 

“You didn’t come to Halloween,” Robin pointed out. “Why?”   
  
“I went with her to her brother and sister-in-law’s party.”   
  
Robin choked on the beer he was drinking. “How’d that happen?”   


“She asked me to.”   
  
“And?”   
  
“And it was good. For about ten minutes. But then her brother was an overprotective dick and apparently used police resources to run a background check on me and so he knows  _ everything _ and tried to tell Emma. And she freaked out. Yelled at him and ran into the hallway and told me she’d let me tell her on my own time.”   
  
“That seems good. The on your own time thing. The rest of it is kind of fucked up though.”   
  
“Her brother’s a detective,” Killian said, like that explained everything. 

Robin made a face, shrugging. “And that makes him an asshole? Seems like a waste of tax dollars.”   
  
“That’s what Emma said.”   
  
“I knew I liked her,” Robin laughed. “So she freaked out, but it seems like she’s ok with you. What happened after that?”   
  
Killian sighed, fingertips pressing into his eyes softly. “We talked. I told her about Liam. She told me her brother found her after she ran away from a foster home. And it was like some sort of I’ll-show-you-mine-if-you-show-me-yours depressing backstory competition. But it was also...I don’t know...good. And then she kissed me. Or I kissed her. I don’t know. It happened very fast.”

Robin slid off the windowsill, dust flying up when he landed on the ground and the look on his face would have almost been hysterical if Killian didn’t feel like he was actually being split in half by having to talk about it. 

“She kissed you?” Robin gaped. “How?”   
  
“You have a six year old kid and you don’t know how kissing works yet?”   
  
Robin glared at him. “You know what I mean.”   
  
“I know that you’re acting like a teenager.”   
  
“You’ve been sulking for two straight weeks, Killian! Pot, meet kettle or however the  cliché works. But I don’t get it. That’s what you wanted, right? What’s the problem?”   
  
“I haven’t talked to her since.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“You need to stop repeating yourself.”   
  
“It’s because you’re giving me bits and pieces of information.”

“That’s all I have,” Killian muttered, kicking at the floor. “We kissed, she freaked out, told me to wait five minutes before coming back into the apartment and she barely said two words to me the rest of the night. I came home like two hours later.”   
  
“How’d you get upstairs without anyone seeing you?” 

Killian rolled his eyes – Robin practically missing the whole point of this entire conversation. It had been easy enough to walk through the kitchen that night, everyone distracted with costumes and drinks and a, frankly, obscene amount of candy. He’d slipped around the side to the door that led to the apartment above the restaurant – something he’d also managed to inherit from Norm – and didn’t sleep at all. 

“You all were slightly preoccupied,” Killian sighed. “And I wasn’t exactly trying to talk to anyone.”   
  
Robin nodded slowly. “You haven’t tried to talk to her since then?”   
  
“No.”   
  
“Why?”   
  
Because he was nervous and a coward and vaguely terrified that Emma would tell him it was a mistake and she regretted it and he wasn’t quite sure what he’d do with that. Because he was half in love with her already. 

And he couldn’t remember the last time he believed he  _ could _ love anything. 

“We’re trying not to push,” Killian mumbled. 

“She seemed to push on that kiss.”   
  
Killian’s eyes flashed, but Robin held his ground – well acquainted with flashing and frustrated and an almost unhealthy determination to make sure Killian was  _ happy. _

“How did you find Gold?” Killian asked and, this time, Robin’s eyes snapped towards his. “How did you find this warehouse?”  
  
“I told you. A friend of a friend.”   
  
“Yuh huh.”   
  
“You don’t trust him.” A statement – not a question – and Killian shrugged. 

“I don’t know him.”   
  
“Marco was right. He owns a lot of properties and they’re all in good spots across the city. The restaurants he’s got have all done well and he’s got a reputation for really turning buildings around and sparking talk.”   
  
“Talk?”   
  
“You know, like drive up interest or something. I think he’s got people in the media or something.”   
  
Killian lowered his eyebrows. “A real estate guy has people in the media?”   
  
“So I’ve heard. John knew him – Gold I mean – he owns the building the bar’s in.” That gave Killian pause. If Gold had worked with John, maybe he wasn’t so bad. The bar was a success and it always seemed to be packed – or had been the two times he’d been there when he actually had time to get above 50th Street. “There’s just one thing John didn’t like.”   
  
“Yeah?” Killian asked. “And what was that?”   
  
“He’s big on deals. And give and take.”   
  
“Like winning this all-star thing?”   
  
“Exactly that. Told John he’d drop two hundred off the rent a month if he could guarantee a good review in the first two months.”

“Seems awfully arbitrary.”   
  
Robin shook his head quickly. “No, no, it’s not. He wants the press and the talk. He wants to be  _ known _ , you know what I mean. He’s picking out talent across the city, trying to align himself with them and, then, more people are renting and buying from him.”

Killian narrowed his eyes, trying to process that. It seemed a little far fetched and much more involved than it had to be. 

And he still needed to win. 

Fuck. 

“What are you worried about with Gold?” Robin asked, sounding genuinely curious. “I mean, it’s not a bad deal. I wouldn’t have told you about it otherwise. Seems pretty easy for you, all things considered.”   
  
“It was,” Killian said, answering before he considered the emphasis his voice had instinctively put on the past tense.

“Was?” Killian didn’t respond and Robin nodded slowly, eyes widening with understanding. “Ah, of course.”   
  
“Don’t get all smug on me.”   
  
“You going to tell her you love her and want to make out in hallways as soon as you get to set tomorrow, or you going to hold off until after you’re done filming? Or, better yet, maybe you can start making out in the makeup room.”

“You’re an ass.”   
  
“I’m right is what I am. You should bring her back to The Jolly soon. Her kid too. How’d the test go, by the way?”   
  
“We got an A,” Killian said and Robin’s eyebrows practically flew off his face at the word  _ we _ . “And I can’t bring her back to The Jolly if she won’t talk to me.”   
  
“She’s probably just nervous.”   
  
“Of me?”   
  
“Are you an idiot?” Killian glared at him, but Robin just clapped him on the shoulder, pulling him towards the door. “She told you her brother  _ found _ her after she ran away from a foster home. She’s probably got a few trust issues. And if you stared at her any more longingly, your eyes would probably fall out of your head.”

He didn’t say anything. 

He didn’t have an answer. 

And Robin knew it. 

And probably knew how much he wanted to kiss her again – because, somehow, Emma Swan had snuck under his skin in a way he was fairly positive he never wanted to stop. 

And he absolutely had to talk to her. 

He hoped the camera didn’t see any of it. 

* * *

“You ever going to talk about it?”

Emma eyed Henry, hand tightening around the spatula in her hands as the words sunk into her brain. “About what?”   
  
She knew  _ exactly _ what. 

About why she’d walked back into the apartment on Halloween nearly two hours before he expected her to be back and why she’d told him he should probably stop texting Killian so much because he was  _ busy _ with the restaurant and why she’d made french toast four times in the last two weeks. 

Well, five if she counted that morning. She should probably count that morning too. There was no sense in lying to herself. 

Even if that’s what she’d been doing for the last two weeks. 

“Mom,” Henry sighed, pulling his plate towards him when Emma dumped three pieces of french toast on it. “You know.”   
  
“You’re going to have to elaborate, kid.”   
  
“You’ve made french toast four times.”   
  
“Five,” she corrected automatically.”   
  
“See, that’s what I’m talking about.”   
  
“I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”

“Like Killian?”   
  
“Henry!”

He shrugged, stuffing french toast in his mouth, and Emma tossed the spatula down on the counter with a lot more force than necessary. 

Because he was absolutely right and she didn’t really need her twelve-year-old dispensing relationship advice at eight in the morning. Especially not when she had to come face-to-face with said relationship  _ whatever _ later that afternoon. They were filming  _ Chopped _ and Emma hadn’t said two words to Killian Jones since she’d practically thrown herself at him in the hallway of David and Mary Margaret’s apartment building on Halloween.

Although he hadn’t said anything either. 

And she’d tried to be mad about that – tried to use that as an excuse for  _ not _ talking to him, but Emma knew that’s all it was, an excuse. Because she’d pushed him away with both hands. She couldn’t seem to get his face out of her mind – no matter how much french toast she made – blue eyes and half-open mouth and something that almost looked like a desperate desire for  _ her _ . 

But that couldn’t have been right. 

He didn’t know anything about her. 

She didn’t know anything about him. 

He couldn’t want her. Not the way she seemed to want him. Because no one wanted Emma Swan like that. And if they did, they just ended up leaving anyway. 

Emma was a disaster. She hoped she didn’t look like one on camera later. 

At some point in her quasi-mental breakdown in the middle of the kitchen, Henry had gone back to his room to get ready for school and Emma nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard the lock turn in the key of the front door a few feet away from her. 

“You ok?” Mary Margaret asked, eyebrows drawn low in concern as she pushed the door back in its frame. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”   
  
“No, no,” Emma said quickly. “I’m fine. Just forgot you were on your way over here.”   
  
“You forgot I was coming over to take Henry to school? We talked about it last night.”   
  
“I’ve just got a lot of things on my mind.”   
  
“Like Killian?”   
  
Emma wished she was still holding the spatula so she still had something to throw and something to work out her frustrations on that wasn’t her pregnant sister-in-law. Instead, she pressed her lips together tightly and met Mary Margaret’s gaze straight on. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, doing her best to keep her voice even. 

“Sure.”   
  
“That’s a pointed opinion.”   
  
“One Henry shares.”   
  
“Has he been talking to you about this?” Emma cried. “Why are you letting him do that?”   
  
“Because he’s just as worried about you as I am.”   
  
“There is nothing to be worried about.”

Mary Margaret crossed her arms and she looked like such a  _ mom _ , Emma had to blink several times to make sure there wasn’t an infant near by as well. “What happened?”   
  
“When?”   
  
“You know when.”   
  
Emma groaned, glancing down the hallway quickly to make sure Henry was still firmly entrenched in getting ready and pulled Mary Margaret towards the couch – yanking her hard enough that David absolutely would have yelled at her.

“It was fine,” Emma said quickly, eyes staring at her hands as they gripped her thighs tightly. “It was really, really good actually. You’d have been proud M’s, I was all confident before the party and he was mock sword fighting with Henry and I didn’t even freak out about that, I just found it endearing.”   
  
“That’s because it is,” Mary Margaret cut in and Emma widened her eyes. “Sorry, go, sword fighting and endearing.”

“And then we got to your apartment and David was a dick and did you know he ran a background check on Killian?”   
  
“I did,” Mary Margaret sighed. “We had quite a long conversation about that. For what it’s worth though, he was just trying to look out for you.”   
  
“I don’t need him to do that.”   
  
“It’s a hard habit to shake.” Emma groaned, shaking her head. “So, David told you about the background check and you went out into the hallway and...then what?”   
  
“We talked.”   
  
“About the background check?”   
  
“No,” Emma shook her head. “Or at least not all of it. He told me about Liam.”

“Who’s Liam?”   
  
“His brother. He’s dead.” Mary Margaret’s face fell and for one vaguely terrifying second Emma was worried she was about to cry – pregnancy hormones and whatnot – but she just nodded encouragingly, silently helping Emma keep talking. “And I...well I told him about David.”   
  
“What about David?”   
  
“I told him how he found me.”   
  
And now Mary Margaret  _ absolutely _ looked like she was going to cry. Because Emma never told anyone that. Ruby didn’t even know that. And she’d been trying to get Emma to bring her  _ hot police brother _ on the show for years. 

“I just...I don’t know, M’s,” Emma sputtered. “I trust him. Or I did. Or I don’t know.”   
  
“Past tense?” Emma shrugged. “What happened after you talked?”   
  
“I kissed him. Or he kissed me. No, I definitely kissed him. But he didn’t seem too upset about it. Until I left.”   
  
Mary Margaret’s mouth was hanging open and Emma was fairly positive Henry was hiding out in his room at this point – determined to let them talk. She appreciated that kid more and more every day. “You kissed him?” Mary Margaret asked, hissing the question out in a forced whisper. “Why?”   
  
Emma raised her hands in the air, holding her palms up slightly – she didn’t have an answer. “I wanted to. I guess.”   
  
“You guess?”

“I did.”   
  
“And now? That was more past tense.”   
  
“Stop being a teacher for two seconds and please focus on this problem.”   
  
“You think it’s a problem?”   
  
And there it was. The million dollar question. Or whatever. 

And why Emma had made french toast that morning – again. Because it  _ should _ be a problem. It should be an issue, how much she wanted it and him and couldn’t shake the way his hand had gripped her waist like she’d been keeping him upright in the middle of that hallway. 

She’d reacted like it was a problem – run away and barely looked at him for the rest of the night, ignoring the quiet way he told her he needed to get back to The Jolly for some sort of Halloween party emergency and how his shoulders had dropped slightly when she didn’t even put up a fight. 

Because of course he’d run away – just like she had. 

But then, in the last two weeks, she’d found herself hoping he’d show up at the network offices or text her or bake cookies for Henry’s soccer team again. And when he hadn’t – when he’d left her alone like she’d pretended she wanted him to – Emma was positive she could actually  _ feel _ her heart breaking. 

She was a melodramatic fool. 

“It’s not going to be bad by default, Emma,” Mary Margaret said softly, pulling Emma’s hand away from her leg. 

“But it could be.”   
  
“And it could also be the best thing.”   
  
“How are you so positive about everything?”   
  
Mary Margaret smiled at Emma, the sheer confidence in it sinking into Emma’s pulse and making her wonder how she’d managed to stumble into this family. “Because even believing in the possibility of a happy ending is a very powerful thing,” she said. 

“I told Henry not to text him anymore,” Emma admitted and she could even  _ hear  _ Mary Margaret’s disappointment. 

“It’s ok to let someone in. He wants to be here. I know he does. He came to the party didn’t he?”   
  
“Yeah,” Emma agreed. “He didn’t, uh, he didn’t say anything before did he?”   
  
“When?”   
  
“When you went to The Jolly. That was a couple of days ago, wasn’t it?” Mary Margaret shifted in her seat, sitting up straight and pushing her bangs away from her eyes quickly, refusing to meet Emma’s gaze. “M’s? Didn’t you go?”   
  
Mary Margaret shook her head quickly. “No.”   
  
“Why not?”

“You’re really asking me that?”   
  
“I’m really curious.”   
  
“Because,” Mary Margaret said, squeezing Emma’s hand slightly. “You walked back in the apartment on Halloween like you were scared to death and don’t think you fooled anyone with making Killian wait to follow you back in. Or at least didn’t fool me. And I  _ knew _ something happened and I knew he only got us the reservation to impress  _ you _ , so it seemed kind of silly to show up if it wasn’t going to do that.”   
  
“Impress me?”   
  
“Exactly.”   
  
Emma groaned, leaning her head back on the side of the couch and trying to remember she was an adult with a kid down the hall and she wouldn’t be able to just pretend she was sick to get out filming  _ Chopped _ that afternoon. 

Even if she wanted to. 

Or didn’t want to. Even if she  _ really _ wanted to see Killian Jones again. 

“I should tell Henry he can text him again,” Emma muttered, sighing softly as her shoulders moved up and down dramatically. 

“Yeah, probably.”

“And I should probably talk to him.”   
  
“That too.”

Emma sighed again – Henry’s footsteps practically racing down the hall now – and Mary Margaret smiled knowingly at her. She still hadn’t let go of Emma’s hand. 

“You ok?” Henry asked, skidding to a stop just a few inches away from the coffee table. Emma narrowed her eyes at him – that same suspicion that he’d  _ absolutely _ been listening before creeping back into the corner of her brain. 

“Definitely,” she said, nearly almost meaning the promise entirely. “Just anxious to get this competition out of the way.”   
And that wasn’t really a lie either. 

“Speaking of which,” Mary Margaret cut in, eyes darting back towards Emma. “Ruby told me the numbers were looking good again.”   
  
Emma shot her a warning look – but Henry’s interest was already piqued and she could practically see the questions forming on the tip of his tongue. Mary Margaret muttered a quiet  _ sorry _ and Emma sighed again before she could stop herself, but Henry was bobbing on his feet in front of her. 

“Is that true, mom?” he asked. “They’re good again?”   
  
“They were never really bad,” she argued. “But, yeah, I mean as good as they’ve been in awhile. Ruby said we may get our timeslot back in the next couple of months actually. Depends on the end-of-the-year numbers, but we’ve got this all-star show and the Christmas episode always does really well.”   
  
It was her  _ thing  _ – had been for the last two years and despite everything else that was going on, Emma had still managed to consider just what she’d make for _The Kitchen’s_ annual Christmas dinner episode.    
  
“When do you film that?” Mary Margaret asked. 

“Not until after Thanksgiving. But Ruby thinks we can kind of blow the metaphorical roof off with that one, especially if we’re promo’ed well and if the cookbook starts trending up again for the holidays.”  
  
It was a lot of ifs and maybes and the uncertainty of it made Emma’s by-the-book head spin slightly, but she was, for the first time in a long time, confident. And she thought she could win again that afternoon. 

Even with Killian a few feet away. 

“That’s fantastic,” Mary Margaret said and the support in her voice was enough to almost make Emma cry – even without the hormone excuse. 

Emma nodded slowly, smile inching across her face and that weird, oversized ball of anxiety that had been living in her stomach for the last two weeks started to shrink just a bit. “It could be,” she said and she wasn’t positive three words had ever meant so much in the middle of her living room on a Tuesday morning. 

Mary Margaret beamed at her. 

“Alright, kid,” Emma said, shaking herself out of the emotional road she was practically sprinting down quickly. “You’ve got to get to school.”   
  
“Ah, do I have to?” Henry sighed, sinking onto the edge of the coffee table. 

“Of course you have to. You think M’s came over here just because?”   
  
Henry shrugged. “And talk about Killian.”   
  
Emma’s mouth hung open – again – but Mary Margaret just laughed softly, pushing herself out of the corner of the couch and resting her hand on Henry’s shoulder. “Smart kid,” she said, voice shaking with the laughter she wasn’t actually trying to let out. 

“Yeah,” Emma sighed. “Too smart for his own good sometimes.”   
  
“So I was right?” Henry asked, jumping off the table and jogging towards his backpack next to the door. “Does that mean I can text him again?   
  
Mary Margaret glanced at Emma, one eyebrow pulled up and a small smile tugging on the corner of her mouth. “If you want,” Emma said. “But not until later ok? I’m sure he’s got a hundred different things to do before he gets to the network.”   
  
Henry nodded, yanking his backpack over his shoulder, but Emma saw his hand dart into his pocket and she was positive his fingers were wrapped around his phone already. She couldn’t quite bring herself to be angry at him. 

Because like it or not – and kiss or not – Killian Jones had found a way into their lives and Emma couldn’t argue that she liked the way he looked there. 

And the way he looked in general. 

But that was a different conversation – and one she didn’t want to have with her son or her sister-in-law. 

“Good luck today,” Mary Margaret said, glancing back over her shoulder as she swung open Emma’s front door. “Remember you have to repurpose the ingredients or you’re definitely going to get chopped.”   
  
“She knows,” Henry said quickly. “We watched the entire collection on Netflix last weekend and came up with a plan. Operation: Beat the Basket.”   
  
“Catchy,” Mary Margaret smiled. 

“It does have a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?” Emma asked, reaching her hand forward to brush Henry’s hair out of his eyes. She wasn’t positive how one child could have hair grow that fast, but it appeared as if he was trying to break some sort of record. “Go home with M’s later, ok?” she continued, glancing down at Henry. He nodded – he knew the plan. 

“Celebratory Granny’s later?” he asked. 

“Put an asterisk on that celebratory, but sure, Granny’s later no matter what.”

“You could bring Killian with you. I could ask him! I’ll ask him when I text him.” Henry’s voice picked up and Mary Margaret was laughing again and Emma was positive if her eyes got any wider they’d actually fall out of her head. 

Her kid was too smart. 

And too good at coming up with plans. 

“We’ll see,” she said quickly, doing her best to not actually answer the question. “Now go or you’re going to be late for school.”

“You’re totally going to win again,” Henry said and it sounded like a promise as he followed Mary Margaret out the door and Emma couldn’t stop herself from believing him just a little bit. 

She walked into the network offices half an hour later – running  _ ahead _ of schedule again – and found the makeup room on the 17th floor jam-packed with people. Belle was in the middle of getting her hair-sprayed, in the midst of a conversation with Graham, who was leaning up against the far wall. Anna was sitting on the counter in front of Belle, her feet crossed at her ankles and Ruby was on her phone, perched on the edge of the chair Emma assumed was for her. 

“Hey,” she said, walking up behind her producer and appreciating the way she jumped just a bit more than she should have. 

“You’re early,” Ruby muttered, not looking up from her phone. 

“It happens sometimes.”   
  
“It never happens.”   
  
“It’s now happened before  _ both _ of these network all-star things.”   
  
“And why do you think that is, exactly?” Ruby asked, pausing dramatically on every word before she twisted in the chair to stare expectantly at Emma. 

“You know why.”   
  
“And I’d love to hear you say it out loud.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Emma muttered, not meaning a word of it. “I’m not rehashing all of this again. I already told Mary Margaret everything this morning.”   
  
Ruby groaned, sliding down the back of the chair until her feet were stretched out underneath the bottom of the counter. “You told Mary Margaret and not me? I’m wounded, Emma.”   
  
“Somehow I think you’ll survive.”

“Whatever.”

Emma stared at Ruby’s reflection in the mirror in front of her – all frustration and disappointment and the sarcastic glint that never seemed to ever really leave her eyes. “You haven’t happened to have seen anyone around this morning, have you?” she asked and Ruby’s eyes practically  _ glowed, _  eyebrows rising in slow motion.    
  
“Not in person, but Belle here mentioned she saw him on set when she got here.”  
  
“Killian?” Belle asked, twisting to try and look at Emma while still not moving under the very precise touch of the network hairdresser. “Yeah, he was getting his station ready before, but that was almost an hour ago.”   
  
“You hear that, Emma?” Ruby asked, lips twisting up as she spoke. “He’s been sitting in the kitchen by himself for almost an hour. Seems like an interesting way to get ready for a cooking show. Or maybe he’s trying to work up some sort of courage to be on camera.”

Belle scoffed, trying to turn the sound into a cough and the hairdresser all but commanded her to  _ stop moving. _  Emma rolled her eyes. 

“I’m going to go take a walk,” she said quickly, knowing full well she wasn’t fooling anyone. Ruby didn’t even try to hide her laughter. 

“As long as you’re not shiny when you get in front of the camera I don’t care what you do before we start,” she said and Emma bit back every retort of  _ where has this leniency been for the last two years, _  because she wasn’t one to walk away from a gift. 

And Ruby’s understanding or support or whatever this was was a gift. 

Emma nodded once, tossing a grateful smile Belle’s way for good measure and moved as quickly down the hallway as possible without actually breaking out into a full sprint – her sneakers squeaked on the floor of the studio as soon as she swung the door open and she was positive her heart had actually made its way into her throat when she saw him sitting there. 

His head snapped up quickly when he heard her walk in and Emma could have been blind and she still would have been able to see the tension in his shoulders, the nerves that were practically rolling off him in that empty kitchen. 

She licked her lips quickly, fighting off the natural urge to run as fast and as far away as possible, and walked further into the room. 

He didn’t turn around. 

He did take a deep breath, his shoulders moving with the effort and ran his hand over the back of his neck. 

“Hi,” Emma said softly, standing next to him and staring straight ahead. She was a coward. And she couldn’t bring herself to look him in the eye. 

“Swan.”  
  
Emma took her own deep breath, eyes trained at the wall ahead of her. She heard him move, his body twisting slightly and the sound of the leather jacket he had on practically echoed in her ears. And then she looked at him. And he looked nervous and slightly hopeful and like maybe he wouldn’t walk away. 

And Emma thought maybe she could believe him. 

“You want to talk?” she said, cracking over the words as she tried to push them out of her mouth. 

He stiffened again, head tilted at her, but then he huffed out a breath of air and it seemed as if he was looking at her for the first time. “I’d like that, Swan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh that got a little cliffhanger-y. Eek. As always, you guys are an absolute delight and your enthusiasm for this story is the absolute best – italics, bold and underlined several times. Also, also, as always, @laurnorder is the greatest (also italics, bold and underlined several times). 
> 
> Come hang out on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	15. Chapter 15

His phone buzzed in his pocket as he walked into the network offices, barely stopping long enough to flash his ID badge at the man sitting behind the security desk. He ignored it. It was probably Robin or Regina or _someone_ demanding he be somewhere or do something or pretend to be excited about having to film this stupid show and act like he wasn’t nervous about coming face to face with Emma Swan.

Killian wasn’t sure he’d ever been _this_ early to a taping. He almost wished Regina was there just so he could lord that fact over her for several hours, but then he’d probably have to answer questions about the expansion and Emma and he wasn’t entirely certain he could handle that.

His phone buzzed again and he groaned, pushing open the door to the studio to find it as empty as he expected it to be. Killian leaned against the counter in his station and yanked the phone out of his jacket pocket, only glancing down at the screen as he swiped his thumb across it.

It buzzed again as he hit the messages icon and Killian saw a name pop up he hadn’t seen in two weeks.

Henry was texting him.

_Hi! I know I haven’t talked in awhile, but mom said it was ok again and I just wanted to wish you good luck before today._

_Although don’t beat my mom if you can. She needs to win to get her timeslot back and she really wants that._

_And maybe don’t tell her I told you that. I’m not sure if we’re supposed to talk about that._

Killian laughed, shaking his hand as the phone buzzed again in his hand. _And you should definitely come with us to Granny’s later. Because the onion rings are really good. And mom said she was going to ask you and I know she wants you to come._

_Don’t tell her I said that either_.

Killian’s head was spinning. Or he was spinning. Or maybe the room was spinning. He wasn’t certain of the specifics, all he knew was his eyes had glazed over when he read the final text, gaze lingering on _she wants you to come_ and wondering why Emma hadn’t said anything herself.

Probably because she’s still scared, some stupid, reasonable voice said in the back of his head and Killian couldn’t help the sigh he let out at that idea.

This was a disaster.

He hadn’t answered Henry. Killian’s fingers practically flew across the phone screen, typing back a reply and hoping he sounded like some sort of mature, responsible adult that Emma could trust with her son. Or with her.

**_I can’t say I’ll lie to your mom if she asks, but between the two of us, I’d also like to come to Granny’s later tonight. If only to test out your onion ring theory_ ** **.** **_And don’t text me while you’re in school._ **

It took two seconds for his phone to buzz and Killian bit back the smile he knew was threatening to take over his entire face.

_How’d you know I was in school?_

**_I know how time works. And you’re in school now. Put the phone away or I’ll definitely tell your mom that_ ** **.**

Henry didn’t text him back.

Killian lost track of how long he stood there – ignoring the pre-show schedule Regina had sent him earlier that morning that claimed he should have been in hair and makeup ten minutes ago. He thought he heard the door open at one point – someone walking into the studio only to leave just as quickly when they realized he’d all but taken up permanent residency at his station.

He was leaning against the counter, trying to organize knives in a way that wouldn’t drive him crazy midway through filming, when the door slammed open and he _knew._

He knew it was her.

He couldn’t say how or why and he was fairly positive there was some sort of deeper meaning behind it, but Killian knew Emma Swan had just walked in the kitchen as soon as the door hit up against the studio wall.

Killian took a deep breath – hoping to ease the tension that seemed to automatically settle in between his shoulders as soon as the door swung open.

She desperately needed new sneakers. He could have heard her a mile away with the way they were squeaking against the linoleum floor.

And that made him smile more than he probably should have.

He could _feel_ her next to him, trying to stay a few inches away from his arm so she wouldn’t accidentally brush up against the leather jacket he was wearing. And she didn’t look at him. Not once.

“Hi,” Emma said softly and Killian’s mouth ticked up quickly. He still didn’t look at her – couldn’t bring himself to actually meet her gaze.

At least not yet.

“Swan,” he muttered.

Emma took a deep breath and his eyes flickered towards her – she didn’t notice, own gaze directly focused at the wall ahead of her. “You want to talk?” she asked.

He stood up straighter, pushing one palm into the counter underneath him until it practically hurt and at least four of his knuckles cracked from the pressure. And then he looked at her, knowing full well that his face was a complete traitor and Killian was struck, once again, by how much he wanted Emma Swan.

She stared back him, green eyes looking at his face for _something_ and he promised himself then, in some sort of weird, and overly dramatic silent moment, that he would make sure Emma got what she wanted.

“I’d like that, Swan,” he said. She looked surprised. Or stunned. Stunned was also a good word. “You alright, love?

Emma shook her head – but he wasn’t sure if it was an answer to the question or just an attempt to refocus her energy on the apparent conversation they were about to have. “I’ve been better,” she said softly.

Ah, an answer to the question then.

“Why?” he asked, turning to lean his back against the counter. Emma bit her lip, glancing up at him with raised eyebrows as she pushed herself up, sitting on the edge of his station with her legs hanging over the side.

“You’re really asking me that?”

“I just did.”

She sighed, but she was still looking at him and that seemed like a bit of a victory in its own right. “Ok,” she said slowly. “I need to explain something to you and I need you to listen and not interrupt until I’m done because otherwise I’ll stop and you deserve to know. Got it?”

“Got it.”

Emma nodded once and set her shoulders – and _God_ she was something when she was determined. And he’d missed talking to her more than he realized.

“When I was seventeen, I met a guy. And he was great. It was all great. And he talked a big game and promised a lot of things and made me _believe_ in a lot of stupid stuff that I shouldn’t have. I loved him. Or I thought I did. David hated him. But that might have just been because David knew he wasn’t going to be around.” 

Killian opened his mouth – questions about where David was going and what had happened practically hanging off the tip of his tongue – but Emma glared at him and he snapped his jaw shut quickly.

“David’s four years older than me. He stayed home for college because of me and his mom and some weird, ingrained sense of responsibility, but he always wanted to get out of Storybrooke. He was leaving for New York. He was going to move to New York and just _leave me_ and, well, let’s say I didn’t cope well. I kind of threw myself into this thing with Neal and it got very serious very fast and he made a lot of promises he didn’t live up to."

"And so, long story short, he left. No explanation, no reason, just walked away from me and everything and left a slightly broken teenage girl who was fairly positive everyone else would walk away.”  
  
“Swan,” he said slowly, hand reaching out to rest on her knee before he could stop himself.

Emma shook her head, hair flipping across her face as she moved. “No,” she countered. “Don’t do that. I’m not looking for your pity.”  
  
“And I’m not offering it.” Her eyebrows jumped up her forehead and all Killian saw was green. He couldn’t look away from her. “This guy, he’s Henry’s…”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“And he’s where exactly?”  
  
“I have no idea,” Emma shrugged. “I haven’t heard a single word from him since he left. I don’t even know if he realizes he’s a father.”  
  
“You never tried to find him?”

Her eyes flashed up to him and he braced himself for the steel that he assumed had taken up residency in her gaze, but it wasn’t there. She just looked disappointed. “No,” Emma said softly. “I thought about asking David. He’s pretty good with those background checks, you know. But I couldn’t ever bring myself to do it. And I think David always kind of blamed himself anyway, for what happened.”  
  
“That wasn’t his fault.”  
  
“No,” she agreed. “It was mine.”  
  
Killian’s hand tightened around her knee and he leaned towards her, trying to fit into her space or breathe her in or make her feel as if the weight of the world wasn’t actually on her shoulders. It sounded idiotic even in his own head.

“No, it’s not Swan,” he said, voice turning firm immediately and Emma bit her lip again.

“I shouldn’t have believed him.”  
  
“Believing in things isn’t a crime, love.”   
  
“No, but ignorance of the law isn’t a defense either.”   
  
“You’ve lost me.”   
  
Emma laughed softly, the sound making its way into every single one of his muscles and Killian couldn’t even remember what he’d been nervous about – not if she kept making that noise. “I just mean that I should have realized. Before all of the believing. That he’d walk away. But that’s kind of why I didn’t. I wanted to believe someone would want me.”   
  
Killian blinked, mouth opening slightly in the sheer disbelief that someone _wouldn’t_ want her. “You can’t think that,” he said softly.

“I’m pretty positive I just told you I did,” she muttered, laughing again and meeting his eyes with a small smile on her face. “That’s why I ran. Why I told you to wait and had some sort of complete mental breakdown in the hallway. Because I wanted. And I thought maybe you did too. And the last time that happened it all blew up in my face.”  
  
Emma held his gaze, but her smile faltered for a moment when he didn’t answer immediately. “Anyway,” she said quickly. “I just thought you’d want an explanation or something.”

She tried to move, to slide off the counter and, presumably, to her own scheduled hair and makeup timeslot before they started taping in forty-five minutes, but Killian blocked her, stepping directly in front of her and earning a knee in his side for his efforts.

“You don’t owe me an explanation,” he said softly, fingers ghosting over her waist and _God_ her legs had somehow landed on either side of him. “But I appreciate it.”  
  
Emma hummed in response, eyes falling to the few inches of space in between them. There wasn’t much of it. “You’re not the only one who knows how to run away, love,” Killian added, moving forward like he was being pulled into orbit.   
  
“No?”

“No,” he repeated. Killian shut his eyes lightly – the weight of the dog tags hanging around his neck suddenly more obvious than ever – and tried to take a deep breath, finding it more difficult than he thought it would be.

And then her hand was on his shoulder and her fingers were tracing patterns up the back of his neck and the air seemed to rush into his lungs.   
  
“After Liam died, everything kind of fell off its axis. All I’d known for _years_ was the Navy. I grew up watching Liam serve and I didn’t even know there was another way to live by the time I got to the Academy. And then I followed him and I was good at it, very _in line_ and followed the rules. When Liam got shipped to the Shiloh, neither one of us even celebrated. It was duty, you know, a job. It wasn’t something to throw a party for."

"And we got shipped out and he ran the ship and his men respected him and I don’t know if he ever quite realized I _idolized_ him. I don’t think I ever even thanked him. For all of it – keeping me and making me who I was and being the only reason I didn’t dive in the fucking ocean after him. It was the worst storm I’ve ever seen, did the background check mention that?”  
  
Emma nodded slowly and Killian bit the side of his tongue, disappointed at the sarcastic way his voice had shifted.

“It was awful. And Liam had to save them all. Or try. They gave me credit for it. Those twenty guys your brother mentioned, one of them was the man Liam kept from being swept off the side of the fucking ship. I tried to argue, let Liam get _something_ , but it was too much paperwork or red tape and he was dead, so what did it even matter?"

"I left two weeks later. Handed in my resignation letter and told them I was done. That’s not quite how it works though. It’s supposed to take almost four months, but I was done. I couldn’t imagine being on the Shiloh anymore, so I walked away. Or ran away.”  
  
“But,” Emma said softly, fingers still moving across his neck like she’d forgotten she was touching him. “If it’s supposed to take four months, how could you just leave?”  
  
Killian ran his hand through his hair, reaching down until his fingers wrapped around Emma’s, tugging her away from him and staring up at her. “You’re smart, you know,” he said and Emma just rolled her eyes.

“What happened?”  
  
“I was very close to being dishonorably discharged. Someone stepped in and made sure I didn’t. Two months after Liam died. I would have gotten time if I had. Jail and...all the paperwork. I never got a full answer, just that no one came looking for me. I walked away and no one cared.” Emma’s mouth dropped open and she twisted her hand quickly until her fingers entwined with his. “Some hero, huh?”

“Doesn’t change what you did.”  
  
“The United States Navy would disagree with you.”  
  
“I know what you did.”  
  
There wasn’t anywhere to move – no way to get closer to her because she was sitting on a counter in the middle of a studio kitchen that should be filled with people in just a few minutes minutes, but Killian didn’t care.

She knew.

And she knew about Liam.

And if he didn’t figure out a way to touch her soon, he was positive his entire body would combust right there in the middle of that stupid kitchen.

“You weren’t wrong you know,” he said, barely able to get the words out without pushing his hand into her hair and yanking her towards him.

“About?”

“Me wanting.”  
  
Emma bit her lip, teeth tugging on it as she tried to move away again – fight or flight syndrome – and Killian dropped his hand, pulling his fingers away from hers. She made some sort of noise at that – something that almost sounded like disappointment when he moved and Killian tried to burn that into his memory – but he just moved his hand back to her waist, holding her on the counter and keeping her in front of him.

“But, despite the rather obscene amount of federal paperwork that will tell you otherwise, I still believe in some sort of good form. I won’t push. And I won’t ask you to tell me anything if you don’t want to. But you should know, you’re not wrong. I want – a lot more than I probably should. So when I win your heart, Emma, and I will win it…it will not be because of any trickery. It will be because _you_ want me.”  
  
It was the first time he’d called her Emma.

At least to her face.

And the _look_ on her face made it blatantly obvious she’d realized that too. He could hear her swallow, throat moving in a way that made him wonder, again, if he’d be able to get closer to her with this stupid counter in the way. She shifted slightly and took a deep breath like she was getting oxygen to her lungs for the first time in hours.

He still hadn’t told her everything – hadn’t explained the expansion or the deal or why he had to win. He hadn’t told her about Milah or how he really lost his hand – fairly certain Emma simply assumed it had happened on the Shiloh. And for as much as he knew he should tell her, he was still scared to tell her.

Scared of the way she’d look at him if she realized just _exactly_ what he was – a one-handed, former drunk who only managed to work his way out of a paper bag because of a series of good luck and the food.

It had always been about the food.

Now it might be about the food and Emma.

“I can’t believe you said that,” she said softly and her eyes were glossy.

“And meant it.”  
  
“I can’t believe that either.”  
  
“You should.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
It was a simple question – one word, three letters – but the look on her face made Killian believe it might have been the most important question in the world. So, naturally his phone buzzed and Emma groaned and Killian’s hand fell off her waist.

“God, put your phone on silent or something,” she said.

“I was having a conversation before you got here, you know.”

She narrowed her eyes and shot him a speculative smile. “Anyone I know?”  
  
“I think you already know the answer to that question.”  
  
“He shouldn’t be using his phone while he’s at school.”  
  
“A fact I told him forty minutes ago.”  
  
If he could get her to smile like that at least once every day for the rest of his life, Killian was certain nothing else would matter. Because he’d never quite seen anything like that.

“Responsible,” she muttered.

Killian shrugged. “He hadn’t texted in awhile. I didn’t want him to get in trouble and get his privileges revoked.”

The smile was gone as quickly as it came, replaced with something that resembled the same kind of nervous anxiety he’d felt in every inch of his body since she walked out of that hallway two weeks ago.

“I’m sorry about that,” she said.

“Don’t be. I understand.”  
  
“Do you?”  
  
“That was the point of that whole discussion about the Navy, love. I ran away and I’ve spent the better part of the last decade trying to come to terms with that.”  
  
“Have you? Come to terms with it?”  
  
Killian twisted his lips and made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. “I’m not sure that I ever will. I spent a very long time trying to live up to Liam’s reputation and now I find I’m constantly trying to honor his memory. And I’m afraid I’m constantly coming up short. He’d tell me I was being an idiot.”  
  
“I think I would have liked him,” Emma said and she didn’t know – couldn’t have have any idea at all – what that meant.

“He would have liked you,” he answered with a conviction that seemed to take her by surprise. Someday he would figure out a way to make her believe the compliments, make her _believe_ in general.   
  
“Even after running away?”  
  
“You came back,” Killian countered, trying not to look at the way Emma’s hand drifted along his arm, fingers tracing towards his brace.

And she was the only one who had _ever_ done that.

It didn’t seem to scare her the way it did other people, didn’t make her uncomfortable or duck her eyes or mutter something about _how impressive_ it was that he was still able to cook. She acted like it was part of him.

And he couldn’t quite breathe if he thought about _that_ for too long.

“I wanted to,” she whispered, fingers digging into his forearm. “And that scared me. A lot.”  
  
“I don’t want you to be scared of me.”  
  
“Not of you,” Emma corrected quickly. “Of what you could do.”  
  
And it all made sense.

And he silently promised he wouldn’t let her down. He’d figure out something with Gold – maybe rob a bank to pay off the building – and she’d get her timeslot back and she’d smile more and he’d kiss her again.

As soon as possible.

“I can’t risk that I’m wrong about you,” she said, pushing her knuckles into her face and leaving an angry red trail across her skin when she wiped away the tears that hadn’t actually fallen down her cheeks.   
  
“You’re not.” She sighed loudly, her entire body falling forward with the effort. “Emma,” he said sharply and her head snapped up again. He traced his thumb over the marks she’d left on her face and tried to smile encouragingly at her. “You’re not wrong, love. You just need to trust me. I want just as much as you do.”  
  
She licked her lips quickly, tongue darting out in way that was absolutely unfair and Killian squeezed his eyes shut tightly, willing himself to not do anything stupid. And then he felt her hand let go of his forearm, drifting back up towards his shoulders until her fingers were buried in the hair at the bottom of his head, the fingernail of her thumb scratching slightly against the skin there.

“I do trust you,” she said softly and it was like he was hearing the English language for the very first time.

“Good,” he answered.

They were inches away from each other – still, somehow, alone in the kitchen – and all Killian wanted was to move his head slightly and kiss her, but he got the distinct impression that they were walking on some very thin metaphorical ice and his phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.

Emma laughed softly, glancing at the offensive bit of technology. “You should answer him. It’s ok.”  
  
He nodded once, trying to figure out a way to breath when she did _that_ with her fingers and grabbed the phone.

_Hey, when you see my mom can you tell her that they sent us home early? There’s like an issue with pipes at school or something_.

Killian handed the phone to Emma, watching her expression carefully as she read the message – the way her eyes widened and she took a slow, deep breath through her nose before muttering a very audible _fuck_. “Can I use this?” she asked.

“Hmmm?”  
  
“My phones in hair and makeup and this came ten minutes ago and I should probably call. That’s why he texted you. He knows I never bring my phone on set.”   
  
“Of course, Swan.”   
  
She nodded once, swiping her fingers across the screen, but she didn’t even try to move away from him or push his hand away from her leg when she held the phone up to her ear. “No, no, it’s me. Yeah, hi, kid. No, we’re not having _that_ conversation right now.”

Killian tried not to smile at that, certain he knew what _that_ conversation was about. “We pay a ridiculous amount of money for that school and they can’t even afford to keep their pipes from freezing? It wasn’t even that cold. It’s the middle of November. No, I know, kid, I realize that’s not the point. Where are you now?”

She talked to Henry for a few more minutes, questions regarding his whereabouts and when the school would reopen dominating the majority of the conversation. And Killian was, once again, impressed by Emma Swan.

Because she was _good_ at this – fantastic at this.

And anyone would have been blind to not realize how much she loved Henry.

“Tell M’s I owe her several waffle cones worth of ice cream and I’ll try and get out of here as quickly as possible so we can get to Granny’s later, ok?” She paused for a moment, eyebrows furrowing slightly as she shifted underneath Killian’s hand. “No, I didn’t. Why would you do that? Kid, we talked about this.”

She took another deep breath and there was barely any green left in her eyes at all. “I will ask. But don’t get your hopes up, ok….I realize you’re texting, this is Killian’s phone. Listen, I’ve got to go because we’re going to film soon, but I’ll ask and I’ll see you later and, hey, anyone tell you how awesome you are today?”

He could hear Henry’s muffled voice on the other end of the line and Emma’s smile when he spoke did something very specific to Killian’s pulse. She hung up, smile still lingering on the corners of her mouth, and handed him back the phone, fingers brushing against his.

“Thanks,” she said softly.   
  
“Of course. Everything ok?”  
  
“Can you believe a school I pay, literally, thousands of dollars for my kid to attend can’t maintain its pipes in the middle of November?”  
  
“I cannot.”  
  
“They froze and there’s no water and why they didn’t realize this before they all got to school I still don’t entirely understand, but Henry’s with Mary Margaret now, which is where he was going to end up after school anyway, so I guess it’s not a huge deal.”  
  
“You’re an incredible mother, you know that, Swan,” Killian said, words spilling out before he could stop himself.

Emma blinked, but she smiled when her eyes met his. “What?”  
  
“Incredible,” he repeated. “Henry might actually be the luckiest kid in the entire city.”  
  
“You’re exaggerating.”  
  
“I am telling you the truth.”  
  
“I wasn’t really ready for it,” Emma mumbled. “I mean Neal was gone and there weren’t really a ton of other people around when Henry was born.”  
  
“Where was David?”

Her eyes flashed and she shook her hair off her shoulders and Killian knew there was something she still wasn’t telling him. “He was in New York,” Emma said quickly. “It took a little while for us to get here.”  
  
Killian nodded slowly, doing his best not to push for the answers he so desperately wanted. “Even so, Swan, Henry’s lucky to have you.”  
  
“Sometimes I feel like I’m the lucky one.”  
  
“That seems like a good thing.”  
  
“It is.”  
  
He wanted to kiss her.

And he wanted to her to know how _good_ she was and then, maybe if she’d let him, he wanted to be part of her life. Unequivocally.

“Henry wasn’t supposed to ask you about Granny’s,” she said softly, leg shifting against his hip as she spoke and Killian bit his lip so he wouldn’t actually groan in the middle of this empty kitchen.

“That’s alright, love.”  
  
“No, no, you don’t understand,” she argued quickly. “I was supposed to ask you. Or, I wanted to ask you. You know, again. If you weren’t busy.”  
  
Killian raised one eyebrow at her and Emma bit her lip. “That so?” he asked and she rolled her eyes.

“Yeah,” Emma said simply.

“You realize you haven’t done that yet.”  
  
“Do you want to? I mean, don’t feel obligated or anything. You don’t have to if you don’t want to or if you’ve got to cook later. Plus David and M’s will be there and maybe Ruby and it might be weird. Or something.”  
  
“I don’t think it’ll be weird.”  
  
“No?”

Killian shrugged. “Not if I want to be there.”

“And you do?”  
  
“I think we’ve established the fact that, when it comes to you, Swan, I want quite a bit.” Emma’s shoulders sagged, like she was exhausted, and Killian dragged his hand up her arm, fingers wrapping around the back of her neck. “And I might have already promised Henry that I’d eat onion rings with him.”  
  
Emma huffed out a breath of air and Killian grinned at her, left hand coming up to rest on her waist and she leaned into the prosthetic. “He likes you,” she said softly.

“I like him.”  
  
“I might like you too.”  
  
His stomach flipped in a way it hadn’t since he was, at least, sixteen years old. “I like you,” he said.

“Good.”  
  
And Killian couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t come up with a single reason _not_ to lean towards Emma and brush his lips against hers and absolutely lose himself in her.

So he did.

He kissed her, fingers pushing into her hair again as Emma’s right leg wrapped around his thigh. Killian had never hated a single piece of furniture more than he hated the stupid counter in front of him, keeping him from actually moving any closer to her, but Emma was nothing if not ingenious and she slid across the top until the entire front of her body was pressed tightly against his.

And he had no idea how he was supposed to go on camera after this.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this – it wasn’t supposed to feel like everything all at once, like he _was_ losing himself or drowning or some other overly romanticized cliché, but that’s exactly what it was.

Emma had her hands buried in his hair and her thumb kept doing that _thing_ , making him actually groan against her lips and Killian could feel her smile when she kissed him, moving her mouth against his like they’d been doing this forever.

Maybe they had – he’d lost track of time.

He might have actually sighed out her name at one point, fingers dancing along the edge of her shirt and Emma’s legs tightened around his hips, yanking herself even closer against him.

“I trust you,” she mumbled in his ear, lips ghosting across his jaw in a way that made goosebumps appear on his arm.

“I don’t intend to let you down, Swan,” he answered, fingers, finally, hitting skin as his hand wrapped around her hip.

“Good.”  
  
She moved back to his mouth and kissed him again and Killian wasn’t never going to argue that.

It was inevitable – someone was eventually going to come into the studio, but he’d been so focused on her and the feel of her under his hand that Killian had nearly forgotten where they were.

Emma’s fingernails skidded across the back of his neck when the door swung open loudly and Killian bit his tongue so he wouldn’t gasp at the feel of it. Her eyes went wide, meeting someone’s gaze over his shoulder and Killian felt like he’d been doused with ice water.

“Swan?” he asked, not moving an inch away from her. She just shook her head quickly.

“Well, I was going to make some sort of crack about forcing Emma to kiss and tell,” a voice said behind him, the laughter obvious in every single syllable, “but I guess I don’t have to do that anymore, do I?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They talked! And made out! And I hope it was worth the wait and the cliffhanger and they're kind of...set now. There'll be some angst because, you know, I'm me, but this is pretty much happening now. So, Chopped will be fun. 
> 
> I have almost run out of adjectives with which to praise @laurnorder, but she continues to be the absolute best. 
> 
> Come flail with me on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	16. Chapter 16

She might have actually cut him.

Emma could feel him stiffen underneath her, the soft, questioning _Swan_ as Killian’s eyes pulled back up to her and he didn’t move an inch. Not even when she was fairly positive she’d cut the back of his neck.

“Sorry, sorry, are you ok?” she asked quickly, fingertips brushing over the back of his neck and _God_ was that blood? That might be blood.

She’d definitely cut him.

He raised one of his eyebrows at her – he still hadn’t moved – and Emma was doing her best to stay rooted to the spot on the edge of the counter.

She wanted to run – every instinct in her body telling her to _move,_  but Killian’s hands were still on her hips and he was standing _in between her legs_ and there was someone else standing in the doorway anyway.

Ruby was staring at them and Killian was standing _in between her legs_ and the smile on her producer’s face probably could have cracked several mirrors it was so goddamn pointed. “Well, I was going to make some sort of crack about forcing Emma to kiss and tell,” Ruby laughed. "But I guess I don’t have to do that anymore, do I?”

Killian squeezed his eyes shut and it looked like he was trying not to rest his head on her shoulder dramatically – and Emma wouldn’t have actually argued if he did that. “You are a child, you know that,” Emma shot, fingers still brushing over the back of Killian’s hair.

“And you were supposed to be back in hair and makeup ten minutes ago.”  
  
“You told me as long as my face wasn’t shiny you didn’t care what I did.” Killian’s eyes snapped back open and he grinned at her and Emma felt her leg tighten around his thigh slightly. Ruby was nearly hysterical.

“Yeah, and I’m fairly positive it’s not shiny, but there might be a few hickeys you want to cover up,” she countered, leaning against the open door frame. “That kind of stuff has a tendency to show up on camera.”  
  
“And you know this from experience?”   
  
“Please, Dor’s not nearly that sloppy. And I’m not the one on camera.” Ruby pushed off the door frame, heels echoing in the otherwise still-empty studio and Killian, finally, moved, taking a step away from Emma, but keeping his hand on her knee. “Plus,” Ruby added, glancing towards Killian. “Regina’s been trying to figure out where you’ve been for the last fifteen minutes. And you’re welcome for covering for you.”   
  
“Thanks, Ruby,” Killian muttered and Emma was smiling like an idiot –  a well-kissed idiot who seemed to have stumbled into _something_.

“Yeah, well, I figured I owed you. One of the last times I saw you I was a drunken mess and kind of mean and that’s not really how I roll.”  
  
“I know that.”   
  
Ruby almost looked actually repentant and Emma was positive she’d never seen _that_ and, God, this was a weird day. A weird, very good, possibly wonderful day. “And you guys should probably stay at least several inches apart sooner rather than later. People are going to come in here soon and while they might not be surprised to see two network all-stars making out on the studio counter, it might not be the most professional thing you guys could do.”   
  
Emma groaned, but Killian laughed, hand tightening on her knee again as he glanced up at her with that stupid smirk. And she still didn’t run.

She didn’t want to.

Weird. What a weird day.

“I think we can control ourselves for the rest of the afternoon, don’t you, Swan?” Killian asked, voice low and meaningful and shooting straight to her core.

She nodded slowly, teeth tugging on the inside of her lip while Ruby stared at her with the most blatant _I told you so_ face she’d ever seen in the history of the entire world. “I don’t see why not,” Emma mumbled, sliding off the edge of the counter.

Her sneakers squeaked when she landed.

“I’ll go fix my face now,” she said, wondering what exactly _controlling ourselves_ meant.

“That’s not even remotely what I said,” Ruby sighed.

“Ah, got you to feel bad. Mission accomplished.”  
  
“You’re diabolical.”   
  
“And you interrupted.”   
  
“I noticed.”

Killian’s hand landed on the small of her back, like he couldn’t quite bring himself to stop touching her and Emma’s mind raced – she still had to cook. He still had to cook. They had to cook in front of a camera.

And it all felt a little déjà vu.

Although the last time they did this, her producer hadn’t found them making out like teenagers in the middle of the studio.

“I better go find Regina,” Killian said softly, fingers tracing up her spine as he spoke. “Make sure she hasn’t actually pulled her hair out yet.”  
  
He brushed his lips over the top of her head and Emma felt her eyes widen, meeting Ruby's gaze a few feet in front of her. The producer just smiled, lips pressed together tightly like she was trying not to laugh in Emma’s face.

And then Killian walked out the door and Ruby practically cackled.

“Shut up,” Emma muttered, making her own way to to the door. “Shut up, shut up, shut up.”  
  
“I didn’t say anything,” Ruby laughed, doubled over with her arm wrapped around her waist.

“You’ve done enough.”

Ruby rolled her eyes, head tilting back as she continued to laugh towards the ceiling. “Oh God, I can’t wait to tell Mary Margaret. She got the emotional heart-to-heart this morning and I walked in on the two of you bordering dangerously close to ripping your clothes off in the studio. It’s almost too perfect.”  
  
“Hey,” Emma said sharply, yanking on Ruby’s arm and every trace of laughter was gone, replaced by a serious look she’d only seen on a few rare occasions. Mostly when they were talking about something important – like the show.

This might be more important than the show.

“Maybe don’t tell M’s,” Emma muttered. “At least not yet. Let me, I mean, us, let us process this first, ok?”

“Process?”  
  
“I told him about Neal.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“Well, kind of,” Emma corrected and Ruby lowered her eyebrows. “I kind of told him about Neal.”   
  
“How do you kind of tell someone about the guy who set you up for his fall and then made no attempts to contact you again even when you’re a world famous chef?”   
  
“I’m not world famous.”   
  
“City famous, at least. Your face is on a bus, Emma.”   
  
“Yeah, don’t remind me.”   
  
“How?” Ruby repeated.

“I was trying to explain why.”  
  
“Why you ditched him at the party?   
  
“Did everybody know that? I was trying to be covert.”   
  
“You didn’t do a very good job.” Ruby grinned at her, one side of her mouth pulling up into a smile and Emma resisted the urge to slide down the side of the wall she was leaning against. She was having far too many emotional conversations in hallways.

She was certain she was skewing the average at this point.

“I’ve got to go make sure I’m not shiny,” Emma said and Ruby rolled her eyes again.

“Are you ok?” Ruby asked, voice falling into that _serious_ tone Emma had been trying to avoid in the middle of the hallway. “For real?”  
  
“Fine. Better,” Emma promised.

“Just tell me one thing.”  
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“Were you as close to actually ripping each other’s clothes off in the middle of the kitchen as it looked like or was that just some sort of illusion?”   
  
Emma grinned, walking down the hallway back towards hair and makeup. “I don’t kiss and tell,” she said, glancing back over her shoulder as Ruby’s whole body sagged with disappointment.

“I shouldn’t have announced myself so early,” Ruby shouted back.

“And that wouldn’t have been weird at all.”  
Emma didn’t say anything else – just sank into the makeup chair and let them do whatever to her face and her hair and tried not to actually start to think.

It didn’t work.

She started to think and question and she couldn’t quite believe she actually told Killian about Neal. Or kind of about Neal.

She hadn’t _actually_ told him about Neal.

And she was back at square one of nervous and anxious and she should have told Killian the _whole_ story. But she didn’t want him to look at her like some kind of felon – which the United States government would have been able to confirm for him fairly easily.

Emma had gotten pretty good at keeping secrets – compartmentalizing everything and finding a place for every one of her emotions so they all fit in a neat little line – but as soon as Killian Jones smiled at her, she found herself _wanting_ to talk and explain and, maybe, tell him every single thought that had ever passed through her mind.

And that, unfortunately, included her prison record.

She needed to start cooking.

She needed to get something in her hands and something in an oven and she needed to refocus her energy on something that _wasn’t_ how they might have actually been close to ripping each other’s clothes off in the middle of the kitchen.

And how much she might have wanted him to.  

“Two minutes, Emma.”

She nearly fell off the chair, feet skidding across the floor and Belle smiled at her, nodding once before she leaned back around the door frame and, presumably, got to the set on time.

They had to do another dramatic, seemingly unnecessary walk-in – moving onto the set in some kind of ridiculous slow motion so that it’d be able to matchup with the voiceover they’d insert in post. And then they were supposed to actually look at the camera and _pose_ or something that made Emma’s stomach clench and she knew she looked as absurd as she felt when she walked away from her mark to find Killian laughing softly in front of his station.

“Incredibly menacing, Swan,” he muttered, fingers tapping on the counter. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, smirk plastered on his face and Emma was positive she heard Belle laugh softly on his left side.

“I figured it was,” Emma shot back. “I’m super scary and super intimidating, you know.”  
  
He turned his entire head to look at her, arms crossing over his chest and twisting the chef’s jacket they were all required to wear. “Something like that,” Killian said and Emma couldn’t breathe.

Regina was giving them instructions – explaining how Chopped worked like Emma hadn’t spent her entire weekend camped out in front of the TV while her twelve-year-old kid came up with a detailed strategy for her – and Emma wasn’t listening at all. Killian rocked forward, almost leaning towards her out of instinct, smiling that stupid, nervous, _genuine_ smile and she wanted to kiss him.

Again.

They’d somehow missed all of the instructions and the introductions and Sidney was talking about the first challenge and using all the ingredients in the basket. “Did you hear anything he said?” Killian asked, eyes practically cutting through Emma.

She shook her head.

“Ah, well, at least we’re on even footing then.”  
  
And it felt like it was true.

She hadn’t told him everything about Neal, but she’d explained enough and she could _do this_ . She could believe him and listen to him and _support_ him.

He’d told her about Liam, about the Navy and she knew there was more to it – more to leaving and ending up with The Jolly and losing his hand, but Emma could wait. She _would_ wait. She wouldn’t run away.

Because she wanted and, for the first time in a long time, Emma was going to make sure she got what she wanted.

Someone yelled _go_ from out-of-frame and Emma swung open the top of the basket, Henry’s strategy ringing in her ears and Killian’s smile in front of her eyes and, God, what was that? “Is that cereal?” Emma mumbled.

Killian grunted next to her and Graham looked thrilled – it might have had something to do with the veal that also existed in the basket. Emma’s mind raced. She yanked the ingredients out of the basket, tossing the stupid thing underneath her station and staring at the counter and the food.

Strategy.

She had a strategy.

Repurpose everything. Do not use the cereal as decoration on the plate.

“You got a plan yet, Swan?” Killian asked and her head snapped towards him, slightly surprised by the sudden return to _the game_.

“I had a plan before I even walked into the office this morning,” she snapped, jogging around her station towards the pantry.

He was behind her – she could feel him looking over her head towards the shelves of spices in front of her and Emma knew he’d understood the double entendre of her sentence. Good. Even footing.

And mutually open books.

Or whatever sort of metaphor she could use.

Killian’s hand brushed over her waist and Emma bit her lip tightly, determined to not actually make a sound. They were well out of the view of the cameras and both Belle and Graham were already doing something at their station, but Emma’s stomach leapt anyway and her heart thudded painfully against the inside of her ribcage.

“What are you doing?” she asked, leaning forward so her back arched into his chest and Emma appreciated the way he inhaled sharply through his nose. She grabbed garlic cloves and bobbed slightly on her feet, looking for thyme and she hoped the pan she’d left on the stove before she moved towards the incredibly well-stocked pantry was actually hot by the time she got back.

“I am trying to find appropriate spices,” Killian muttered in her ear, leaning his hand over her to grab the thyme.

“Ah! I was looking for that.”  
  
“You’ve got to move faster, love.”   
  
“Not all of us just instinctively know where to find the thyme on kitchen sets that aren’t our own.”   
  
“Robin stocked this,” he said, moving away from her back and _that_ shouldn’t have been nearly as disappointing as it was.

“What?”  
  
“You’re wasting time, Swan.”   
  
“I am curious.”   
  
“Robin works for the network too, you know.”   
  
“I didn’t.”   
  
“For someone who claims to be as curious as you, you don’t ask many questions,” Killian laughed, turning her around and, jeez, he was walking her back towards the wall. And further away from the camera.

“I’ve had a few other things on my mind,” Emma mumbled, back bumping up against the wall and shaking the spices behind her.

“That so?”  
  
His hand was back on her waist, thumb moving up and down across her t-shirt and there was no way they could _both_ lose this opening round, could they? They only chopped one person. She’d learned that during the weekend marathon.

God, she hoped the pan wasn’t actually on fire at this point.

Emma draped one arm over his shoulder – moving so it didn’t get twisted in between them – and she couldn’t seem to keep her fingers out of his hair. And he didn’t seem to mind all that much either.

“You know it is,” she said. “Now, come on Jones, answer my question.”  
  
His eyes flashed – all blue and emotional and staring straight at her. “Robin works as a supplier for the network, stocks all the sets and makes sure there’s food and everything. I helped him with the spice rack a couple of days ago.”   
  
“That seems like cheating.”   
  
He grinned at her, hand tightening until it pushed the shirt away and fingers hit skin and maybe Emma was the one on fire – not her pan. “Pirate,” he mumbled, head dropping against her ear and doing something absurd with his mouth.

“That was only on Halloween.”  
  
“Ah, fair point, Swan.” He kissed along her jaw and his hand moved across her back and Emma couldn’t imagine there was much time left in this round. She was surprised someone hadn’t come looking for them.

She was grateful someone hadn’t come looking for them.

“We have to cook,” she mumbled.

“We will.”  
  
“Now? Because now might be a good idea.”

“You want to move?” Killian pulled her closer against him, hips hitting on hips and both of them groaned softly and then he was kissing her again – lips moving across hers in a kind of rhythm that seemed to only exist in movies.

And now in the back corner of the Chopped studio pantry.

“I also don’t want to lose,” Emma said – she didn’t move.

“Neither do I.”  
  
“Then we should probably cook.”   
  
He nodded slowly, eyes doing that _thing_ again and he kissed her again, holding the thyme out in front him. “Take it, Swan,” he said softly. “I did cheat, after all.”   
  
“Technicality.”   
  
“Ah, don’t let me off the hook that easily. Take the spices.” He shook the container slightly and Emma wrapped her hand around it as he smiled encouragingly at her. “And go make your appetizer.”   
  
“Aye aye.”   
  
She heard him laugh softly behind her as she jogged back towards her station. The pan wasn’t on fire. That seemed like a positive.

Emma glanced up at the clock – fifteen minutes. She had time.

“Where’d you disappear to?” Graham asked, glancing at her as Emma tossed the venison on the now-scalding-hot pan and shaking the container of thyme over the meat quickly.

“I had to get spices. Took awhile to figure out where everything was.”  
  
Graham stared at her speculatively, shaking the pan in front of him and only glancing away when he heard Killian return to his station. And then he nodded, mouth opened in something Emma was certain was supposed to be understanding, but only seemed a bit judgemental. “Oh,” he said slowly, putting the pan back on the the stove and turning around to the counter. “Got it.”   
  
“Got what?” Emma asked, cutting into the pita bread and tossing it onto a cookie sheet in front of her. “Exactly?”   
  
“You and him, huh?”   
  
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”   
  
“If you say so, Emma.”   
  
“I think I just did.”

Graham made a face, eyebrows jumping up his forehead as he looked back over his shoulder at his soon-to-be-seared veal and Emma refocused her energy on the gooseberry preserves and knockoff Fruit Loops in front of her.

Sauce.

She could make sauce.

And repurpose ingredients. Done and done.

She grabbed a bowl underneath her station, dumping out the preserves and pouring the cereal into a food processor, ignoring the way the sound of the machine grated on her suddenly fraying nerves. Sydney yelled _five minutes_ and Emma took a deep breath, chancing a glance at Killian who looked the picture of calm, focused energy next to her.   
  
Of course.

She needed to keep cooking. If she kept cooking she couldn’t think and couldn’t slightly freak out at the idea that they were that _obvious_ and people would eventually know she wanted to make out with one of the network all-stars.

“Is that a sauce, Swan?” Killian asked, glancing over her station with a smile on his face. “Good idea.”  
  
“I don’t need your compliments.”   
  
“I have no doubt, love, but I’m giving them nonetheless. And your veal’s about to burn.”   
  
Emma groaned, spinning back towards the pan and forcing a spatula underneath the meat with, what appeared to be, just minutes to spare. She grabbed a towel, throwing into on the counter and put the veal down quickly, yanking open the front of the oven and grabbing the now-toasted pita bread before jogging towards the back corner of the studio to grab a small stack of plates.

“You seem a little bit stressed, love,” he said not two moments later, crowding into her space again and nearly making her drop the the dishes she had in her hands.

“And you are distracting me.”  
  
“Why do you think that is?”   
  
“Maybe because you won’t shut up.”   
  
“I can think of plenty of other ways to ensure that I do.”   
  
Emma rolled her head to the side, eyes wide with – maybe – frustration, but mostly she was just charmed. He was charming and flirting with her and he _wanted_ her to keep making out with him in the pantry on the Chopped set.

“Plate your food,” Emma muttered, not able to quite keep the smile off her face.

“Of course, love. You’ll find I’m very good at following directions.”  
  
Emma pressed her lips together tightly, breathing slowly through her nose and staring at the stupid smirk carved on his face. She didn’t say anything – couldn’t come up with anything else if she tried – and he moved his eyebrows, widening his eyes as she let out a quiet _humpf_ and walked back to her station.

Ok. Plate. Plating. She could plate. She could plate in her sleep.

And plating in her sleep might actually have been easier than plating with Killian Jones smirking at her a few feet away.

Pita first, veal next and, fuck, she needed to mix the sauce still.

Emma yanked the top off the food processor, dumping the cereal mixture – flour – into the preserves and squeezing a lemon on top, reaching across the station to grab a wooden spoon she couldn’t remember putting there. She stirred the thing through the mixture quickly and leaning the bowl against her hip as she tried to figure out if there was something else she could add to make this better.

It had to be better.

It needed to be perfect.

“Looks good, Swan,” Killian said, eyes darting back to her plates. “As per usual.”  
  
“Needs something else.”   
  
“Like?”   
  
“Butter!”

Killian laughed as Emma ran towards the refrigerator on the other side of the studio, nearly yanking the door of the front as she swung it open and she wasn’t entirely certain she’d actually closed the thing when she grabbed the butter and sprinted back to her station.

She grabbed brown sugar off a shelf and tossed the butter back on the pan – somehow still hot and maybe she should have considered turning the oven down at some point – whisking in the sugar and trying to ignore Sydney’s countdown a few feet away.

“You better hurry, Swan.”  
  
“Shut up.”   
  
“I’m just saying.”   
  
“Shut up.”

She closed her eyes as she finished stirring, spinning on her heels and grabbing a spoon to drizzle whatever she’d just made over the top of the veal and the pitas and she could feel Killian’s eyes watching her.

It didn’t matter.

Emma had found the zone.

Or something less ridiculous sounding.

She’d gone to culinary school, had practically grown up in a kitchen, but she’d _found_ herself in restaurants and on the line and coming up with that one thing that would make the difference in a meal.

It’s what got her on TV in the first place.

Emma grabbed another spoon – wondering if Robin stocked the silverware as well – grabbing the _other_ sauce she’d made and moving it across the side of the plate. Repurposed ingredients also serving as decoration.

That was a bona fide win.

Sydney yelled time and Emma exhaled loudly, staring down at her plate with a grin and a sense of pride she hadn’t felt since she worked in a restaurant – or since she’d chopped up vegetables for twenty minutes in The Jolly.

“Looks good, Swan,” Killian said as they walked to their marks in front of the judging table. “The butter was a smart choice.”  
  
“I can’t believe I almost forgot it.”   
  
“But you didn’t.”   
  
“That is true,” Emma smiled. “What did you make?”   
  
“You’ll have to wait and see.”   
  
“Are you teasing me?”   
  
“I would never.”   
  
He absolutely would. And he was – eyes darting between her and the table in front of them, small smile on his face proving himself wrong in approximately two seconds.

Sydney stepped towards his mark and spoke towards the camera – rehashing the basket ingredients and instructions Emma hadn’t been listening to before and introduced the judges and, somehow, Tink was sitting in front of them again, eyes trained on Killian.

And she was jealous.

She was actually jealous.

She didn’t have anything to be jealous of.

Did she?”

Maybe. If middle-of-filming and makeouts in the pantry were any indication. Or pre-show makeouts on top of his station. Or deep, dark, emotional revelations that showed just how similar they might be.

But they had never used the word _date_ the first time and they hadn’t gotten to defining anything and maybe they wouldn’t ever – Emma didn’t need a definition. She shouldn’t expect a definition. She’d been the one who’d run away after all.

She just wished Tink would stop looking at Killian like that.

Belle had forgotten an ingredient and Emma tried to stand up a bit straighter as they moved on to Killian’s dish.

He’d made tacos – appetizer tacos and, somehow, he’d managed to make guacamole. Emma hadn’t even realized and he’d been standing ten feet away from her for the last thirty minutes.

Tink gushed about the food for what felt like several hours and Emma knew Killian kept looking at her. She bit her lip and refused to tug on the end of her hair and, then, they were talking about her food and they liked it and even Tink agreed the butter was a necessity.

Graham’s was perfect.

Of course it was.

He probably skinned the deer himself before they filled the basket with ingredients that morning. He grinned at Emma while he was showered with compliments from all three chefs, talking about how well he cooked the meat and _seared_ it and the salad he made was fantastic and Emma couldn’t believe he made salad.

He was supposed to be a woodsman. Or something.

They didn’t talk about the food on that one date. And that should have been enough of a warning sign.

They chopped Belle – forgetting ingredients was a death sentence, Emma learned during the weekend marathon – and Graham grinned at her again as he glanced towards the side of the studio, intent on getting something to drink before they moved into the main course round. “Smells good, Emma,” he said softly, the genuine smile on his face making Emma feel a bit guilty for thinking he’d skinned a deer or something.

He was just a nice guy.

Who knew how to cook. And Emma was totally jealous of the way Tink kept talking to Killian about tacos.

“Thanks,” she said and Graham reached out to squeeze her forearm quickly. “You want anything to drink?”

“No,” Emma shook her head. “I’m good for now. But thanks.”  
Graham nodded and Emma heard footsteps behind her and a hand on her back like there was a magnet there. “What was that?” Killian asked.

“What was what?” Emma countered, turning around and taking a step away from him as his hand dropped back, unceremoniously, to his side.

“You and the huntsman or whatever.”

“What?”  
  
“Was he talking about your food?”   
  
“On the cooking show we’re both on? Yes.”   
  
Killian’s mouth pressed together tightly and stuck his hands in his pockets as he rolled back on his heels. “Of course.”   
  
“What about you? Tink sample anymore of your food?”   
  
He looked back up to her quickly, one side of that still-pressed-together-mouth tilting up. “What?”   
  
“She seemed to come up with some previously unformed adjectives to describe just how much she loved your guacamole.”   
  
“That’s because I make very good guacamole, Swan.”   
  
“Of course,” she said, repeating his words back.

“Would you like to try it as well? It’s not my best, time constraints down the stretch kind of hurt, but it’s pretty good all things considered.”  
  
“All things considered?”   
  
“What’s gotten into you, Swan?”

He took a step back, leaning against the judging table – now abandoned as everyone else on the entire set seemed more interested in the catering table on the other side of the room – and grabbed the plate of Emma’s food, sticking the pita into the fruit sauce she made, nodding as he ate.

“Nothing,” Emma said quickly – too quickly to bely any sort of doubt.

Killian grinned at her, eyebrows pulled low. “You’re a terrible liar.”  
  
“I am a fantastic liar.”   
  
“Not to me you’re not. What’s going on? You seemed fine before.”

“Yeah, well, I was distracted before.”  
  
“By me?”

“Maybe.”  
  
He laughed, grabbing another piece of pita and practically dragging it across the plate, sweeping up the last bit of sauce before he stuffed the entire thing in his mouth. “You distract a lot of people?” Emma asked.

“I don’t know what you mean.”  
  
“I mean Tink had a lot of adjectives to share on guacamole that she seemed awfully familiar with. And I’m just wondering how often you make guacamole.”   
  
“Rarely,” he said, putting the plate back down next to him and staring at her. “And not for a very long time.”

Emma exhaled loudly, tugging on her hair and Killian’s eyes followed the movement of her hands. “No?” she asked, wondering how she’d ended up putting the weight of the world into one word and two letters.

A few hours ago she’d been sitting on her couch trying to rationalize letting Henry text Killian and, now, she was wondering what this _was_ and acting like some sort of jealous fifteen-year-old whose date danced with someone else at homecoming.

“No,” Killian repeated, sliding off the table and taking two steps towards her.

“Why?”  
  
“Are we still talking about guacamole?”   
  
“I don’t think so.”   
  
Killian took a deep breath and grinned at her, hand moving up and down Emma’s arm quickly. “You asked me why?” Emma nodded. “Because I didn’t believe in it. Any of it. And I was angry and frustrated and all I had was the food. So I focused on the food and only the food and tried to tell myself I wasn’t disappointed with the way things had turned out.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Yeah?”  
  
“I couldn’t tell you the last time I had guacamole.”   
  
He laughed loudly, drawing a few glances from the crowd of people on the other side of the room and Killian dropped his hand away from Emma. “You want some?” he asked, eyes ridiculously blue when he looked at her.

“Are we talking about guacamole again? I’ve lost track of the metaphor.”  
  
“Yes and also no. But there is actually well-made guacamole behind me and I did eat _your_ food, so it only seems fair.”

“Give me a taco.”  
  
He beamed at her, turning around and grabbing the plate behind him. Emma grabbed one of the mini-tacos and bit down and _jeez_ he was good at cooking. “This is ridiculously good. I can’t believe you taught yourself how to cook.”   
  
“I told you, Swan, I just kind of stumbled into some good luck. Then and now.”   
  
“Is that what this is? Good luck.”   
  
“Guess it depends.”   
  
“On?”   
  
“On you forgiving some completely irrational jealousy,” he said softly, putting the plate back down behind him.

“That makes two of us,” Emma repeated.

“Even footing, right?”  
  
“Exactly that.”

Killian nodded, glancing over Emma’s head quickly to make sure just about everyone else in the room was occupied before ducking his head to kiss her. “I’m glad we cleared that up, love,” he said and his voice actually sounded husky and she’d never used that word before in her entire life.

“I’m glad you made the guacamole again.”  
  
He grinned at her and kissed her again, hand tightening around her arm and Emma kept her feet planted on the ground so she wouldn’t puller herself against him. She could hear footsteps moving again and knew the break was over and both of them took a step back, small smiles on their faces.

They hadn’t defined it – not officially – and Emma was still trying to figure out the metaphor completely, but she was happy.

And she had a main course to cook.

* * *

“I’m sorry, what are these?”

“Dragon’s tongue beans.”

“And those are what exactly?”  
  
“You’re the chef,” Sydney said patiently. Or at least trying to sound patient. They were, after all, on camera. “You tell me.”   
  
“I have no idea what these are.” Killian glanced down at the basket, trying to push his frustration into his feet and away from his face. On camera. They were on camera. And he could hear Emma’s soft laughter next to him, knew she was smiling and that set him on a totally different path of pushing emotions off his face.

They were on camera.

“There are other ingredients in the basket,” Sydney pointed out and Killian shot him a glare, leaning across his station and avoiding Emma’s gaze.

“Thank you Sydney,” he said, pausing in between each word and trying to keep his voice even. “I realize that there are other ingredients in the basket.”  
  
“And you know what those ones are?”   
  
“I do.”   
  
And he did.

And he knew what to do with them – goat chops, cinnamon schnapps and dark chocolate. That part was easy.

He had the whole thing planned already – sear the goat, mix the chocolate and bread crumbs to make a crust, add more chocolate to the schnapps to make a sauce and, then, figure out what exactly dragon tongues beans were.

And why they sounded absolutely disgusting.

Sydney started counting down and announcing the next round had started and Killian was positive the frustration was obvious on his face. Fuck. He was still on camera. And he still had no idea what dragon tongue beans were.

Killian ran his hand through his hair – Graham moving towards the pantry out of the corner of his eye with a determination that proved _he_ knew what dragon tongue beans were and Emma was twisting knobs on her stove and throwing butter into pans.

He hadn’t moved.

He should move.

He should cook something.

He shouldn’t feel completely useless because he didn’t know what dragon tongue beans were. God, that was the worst name in the entire world.

“You alright?” Emma muttered, glancing over her shoulder at him, while she held her pan above the stove, pouring the schnapps in and leaning back so her hair wouldn’t catch on fire.

“That was impressive, Swan.”  
  
“Didn’t answer my question.”   
  
“I’m fine.”   
  
“Sure.”   
  
“Fine.”   
  
Emma put the pan down on the stove, dumping the beans in with the schnapps and stared at him appraisingly, like she could read his mind or something. And he got the distinct feeling that, maybe, she could.

“Killian,” she sighed and her voice felt like pinpricks across his skin, making every single one of his nerves light up – or whatever it was that nerves did. He wasn’t into specifics. He just knew when she said his name he couldn’t think straight.

“I have no idea what these are,” he grumbled.

Emma grinned at him, taking a step into his station and glancing around to make sure they were actually being filmed. They were. Of course.

“They’re disgusting,” she said simply, working a soft laugh out of him and forcing some of the frustration he’d felt to ebb away just a bit. “But I was just going to make them as a side. Braised, butter, couple of spices. There’s not much else to do with them.”

Killian groaned, lips twisted on his face as he scuffed his foot along the floor of his station. There had to be something else to do with them. He grabbed one of the stupid things out of the bowl and bit down, trying to figure out what they even tasted like and if he could maybe make them taste better.

He couldn’t.

These were disgusting.

“These are awful,” he grimaced, swallowing slowly as he tried to ignore the flavor.

“Told you.”  
  
“Yeah, well, not all of us can be classically trained, love,” he said softly, eyes darting to a suddenly nervous-looking Emma. She took a step back towards her stove, shifting the pan a bit before turning to start chopping up the goat meat sitting on her counter.

And there it was – he had fallen back into unconfident asshole with relative ease. He was always kind of teetering right on the edge of it, but it constantly surprised Killian how simple it was for something to shake the bravado and the show.

Neither one of them said anything for what felt like days and Killian nearly cut into his prosthetic six different times while he diced an onion he thought might make the beans not taste quite as horrible. He moved quickly – well aware of the time and Sydney’s pacing in front of the judging table and Graham’s ridiculous self-confidence with yet another _gamey_ meat in the basket.

Killian was going to have a long conversation with Robin about that later – or maybe not. If he still went to dinner with Emma and her family. If she still wanted him to.

He was a stupid asshole.

She was standing in front of her oven and the food smelled fantastic – again. And she was so focused, eyes narrowed at the pan in her hand, occasionally glancing up towards the clock in the corner of the studio.

Emma moved – her whole body shifting in what actually looked like muscle memory – as she twisted around, still holding the pan over the stove, to grab something off the top of her station and throw it into the mix.

“That was impressive, Swan,” Killian muttered softly, flipping the strips of goat meat on the grill he’d set up on top of his stove.

“You said that already.”  
  
“Doesn’t make it any less true.”   
  
She smiled at him and it felt like he could breathe again and Killian wondered when he’d settled into _that_ – needing her to smile at him and, well, needing her.

It hadn’t snuck up on him. He’d realized it was happening and it was happening quickly and he was fairly positive he couldn’t stop it if he tried.

He didn’t want to try.

“What did you do with the beans?” she asked.

“Onion, chicken stock, vinegar.”  
  
Emma pressed her mouth together, lower lip jutting out slightly in something that vaguely appeared to look like _impressed._  Killian smiled, raising his eyebrows as he moved around her, hand drifting across her back as he walked to the corner of the studio to grab plates.

He could hear her behind him – those sneakers announcing her arrival wherever she went – and she stood next him, staring at the stack of dishes and options, fingers tugging on the bottom of her hair before she pushed it over her shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered.

And he could practically hear her smile.

“It’s ok.”  
  
“It’s not, but I appreciate the effort to understand. I don’t like not knowing something. Ever. And it’s pretty easy for me to get frustrated when I don’t. Especially when it comes to the food. Stick around, Swan, and you’ll realize I’m pretty good at wallowing just a bit.”   
  
Emma rocked back on her feet for a moment before reaching forward to grab a stack of plates in front of her, resting them on her hip and turning to look at him. She stared at him for half a moment and then reached out and brushed her hands over his hand – his left hand – and smiled slowly, the movement stretching across her face and straight through him.

“I’d like that,” she said and he tilted his head, eyes flashing up towards hers.

“Watching me wallow?”  
  
“No,” she laughed softly. “Sticking around.”   
  
And he hadn’t expected that.

“I’d like that too.”  
  
“Good.”

They were absolutely being filmed. Emma’s fingers were still wrapped around his hand and he could hear Sydney yell something about _five minutes_ from his spot in front of the judge’s table and neither one of them moved.

“You guys are painfully obvious,” Graham muttered, stepping into the corner with a smile on his face. “You realize you’re on camera.”  
  
“Shut up Humbert,” Emma mumbled, readjusting the pile of plates against her hips. She glanced up at Killian, nervous energy nearly radiating off of her and they probably should have _talked_ more before they started filming.

They’d been too busy – how had Ruby put it? – trying to rip each other’s clothes off in the middle of the studio kitchen. It didn’t seem like a _bad_ problem to have, but it did kind of beg the question of establishing some sort of definition about what was happening here.

Or not happening.

Or maybe happening at Granny’s Diner that night.

“I’m just saying,” Graham said, laughing as he leaned around Emma to grab a small stack of bowls just above her head, “there are cameras everywhere and the two of you are very bad at making this not look like something.”  
  
“And what do you think that something is?” Killian asked – falling into the kind of overprotective mode that would be able to rival even David Nolan as quickly as he’d fallen into asshole a few minutes before.

Graham laughed again and Emma rolled her eyes as Sydney approached the three of them – a cameraman just a few feet away from him. “What’s going on over here?” he asked, _host_ voice crashing against Killian’s ears like nails on a chalkboard. “Some sort of plating war council?”   
  
“A war council?” Killian repeated, grabbing plates and taking a step away from Emma so his hand wouldn’t find its way back to her shirt or her neck or her waist. “Seems a little _West Side Story_ doesn’t it?”   
  
“I’m not snapping my fingers,” Graham added. “And, plus, it seems Jones has already won the first rumble. Or whatever.”   
  
Emma’s entire body sagged when she rolled her eyes and groaned and Killian couldn’t stop the smile on his face when she moved. “Go plate your food, Humbert,” she muttered, voice dangerously low and she didn’t need Killian to protect her – she was doing perfectly fine all on her own.

Graham’s eyes darted between Emma and Killian quickly, but he stood up a little straighter when the camera moved on him, plastering a smile on his face. “Absolutely,” he said. “Time keeps on ticking and all that.”

“Oh my God,” Emma groaned and Killian chuckled under his breath.

Sydney and the camera had followed Graham back to his station – suddenly less interested now that their apparent war council had ceased to exist – and Killian’s fingers were wrapped around Emma’s again as soon as he realized they weren’t being filmed.

“You alright, love?”  
  
She nodded slowly, thumb tracing a pattern over the side of his wrist. “I’ve got to plate my food.”

“Yeah, of course.”

Emma pulled her hand back to her side, wrapping her fingers around the plates and moving back to her station quickly, head pointed in front of her and that determination Killian had been so impressed by just a few minutes before was obvious in every single step she took.

Sydney was counting down and Killian ignored him, plating as quickly and cleanly as he could, grabbing a towel from the corner of the station to swipe along the edge of each plate, tossing it back over his shoulder when the host shouted _time_.

He took a step back, shoulders heaving slightly as he glanced down at the food.

He hoped the beans didn’t taste disgusting.

The three of them walked towards judging, plates of their food already sitting at the table and Sydney standing on his mark with his arms crossed over his chest.

And it didn’t go too bad.

The beans, apparently, weren’t a complete disaster and the meat was cooked well and _the plating was gorgeous_. He felt good.

And then they got to Emma’s.

And he felt like shit.

They hated it. They hated the meat and the plating and the _fucking dragon tongue beans,_ telling her she hadn’t done anything except cook them and put them on the plate.

Emma took a deep breath next to him, tugging on her hair and biting her lip at the same time – and he couldn’t put his hand on her back, couldn’t do anything because they were on camera and his whole body felt like it flipped at the sight of her.

She was a mix of surprise and disappointment and her face barely even moved when they told her she’d been chopped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am constantly overwhelmed by how fantastic you guys all are. Everything is so nice and I am just a mess of emotions and reading comments and then showing my husband to prove how cool I am. 
> 
> Things are happening here - Chopped couldn't be easy, could it? Nah. 
> 
> As always, I'm totes down to flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	17. Chapter 17

“We’re going to take another ten before we film the third, ok?” Regina asked, appearing a few feet in front of them suddenly. She’d seized control of the show again, something about instructions from Zelena and having the most experience with competition shows and no one really seemed to care except for her.

Killian barely even processed the words – taken back a bit by how much watching Emma lose had made his stomach churn.

What a fucking disaster.

She still hadn’t moved – Regina glanced at her warily and Killian met his producer’s eyes. “We’ve got it, Gina,” he said softly, body turned entirely towards Emma. She still hadn’t moved.

Regina nodded and did her best to smile encouragingly and Killian appreciated the effort, even if the final result fell a bit flat. He didn’t say anything else until the sound of Regina’s heels had retreated to the other side of the studio, taking a step towards Emma and wrapping his fingers around her shoulder.

She moved then – shoulder slumping underneath his touch as she took a step back. And he tried very hard not to sigh.

He didn’t succeed.

“They didn’t like it,” she said softly, eyes trained at her feet.

“I heard.”  
  
“They liked yours. And Graham’s. They didn’t like mine.”   
  
“That happens sometimes, Swan,” Killian said, doing his best to sound reasonable and supportive when his mind was still _very much_ hung up on the fact that she’d taken a step back.

“Not for you.”  
  
“Ah, well, we can’t all be quite as fantastic as I am.”   
  
She let out a shaky laugh and that felt a bit like a victory – enough to make him take a step back towards her and, this time, Emma didn’t move. Instead, she lifted her head, meeting his eyes with something that almost looked like a smile as she twisted her hands together in the space between them.

“That’s probably true,” she said softly.

“You’re a very close second, love.”  
  
“Gee, thanks.”   
  
“I know, you don’t have to tell me how overwhelmingly charming I am.”   
  
Emma laughed again and she was actually smiling now, tongue darting across her lips as she pushed her hair back behind her ears. “You going to let me try your food now?” she asked, taking a step towards the table and grabbing the plate before he’d even given her an answer.

“Of course.”  
  
She leaned against the edge of the table, twirling the fork in between in her fingers before taking a bite, closing her eyes slightly as she ate. And then she beamed at him. “You’re right,” she said, nodding towards the space next to her.

Killian moved where she directed, grabbing the plate of her food as he went. “About what, Swan?”  
  
“This is fantastic.”   
  
“Look who’s the charmer now. And anyway, that’s half your victory, you’re the one who explained what to do with the beans.”   
  
“I’m being honest,” she said and there was absolutely no way to doubt her. “And fat lot of good that did me. Jeez, Henry’s going to be so mad. We had a whole system. I was supposed to repurpose everything.”   
  
“You cooked them, Swan. That’s all I did too.”   
  
“Not well enough, apparently.”   
  
“What are you worried about?”   
  
“Would you like an itemized list?”   
  
“Just an answer would be good.”   
  
She sighed, taking another bite of food before he answered. “I needed this one,” Emma said slowly. “The Cutthroat win has been huge. The numbers have gone up over the last couple of weeks and Zelena had a meeting with Ruby about possibly getting me my timeslot back. So we talked about it, which is all we seem to be doing now, and Rubes thought if I won today and then added a good showing with the Christmas episode, we might get back to 10 by the start of next year. But then I couldn’t repurpose beans with a disgusting name and Henry’s going to be so disappointed.”  
  
Killian took a bite of her food so he didn’t have to answer immediately – a dozen different emotions coursing through his system. Mostly he was frustrated with himself and curious how long first-time offenders got for robbing a bank.

Because he’d have to rob the bank.

There was no way around it. He couldn’t beat her at this thing. He couldn’t let her think she wasn’t enough.

And the only way he’d be able to afford the expansion was if he robbed a bank and paid off Gold.

Emma bit her lip, glancing at him and shifting her body where she was sitting. “Anyway,” she said quickly, taking his silence as something entirely different the conflicted mess he was. “That’s my sad, little story. I’m glad you made it through though. That’s a good thing.”  
  
“Swan,” he sighed.   
  
“Nah, we’re not doing the pity thing. That’s not how we roll.”   
  
“I’m not, honestly. I just don’t think one episode of this stupid all-star thing is going to completely change the numbers you’re pulling. You didn’t get chopped first, so that’s good and this food is fucking delicious so I don’t know what the judges were thinking.”   
  
She stared at him, eyes going wide and green. “Yeah?”   
  
“Scout’s honor.”   
  
“I hardly pegged you for some kind of boy scout,” Emma laughed. “I was under the impression you were a ruthless pirate.”   
  
“Not ruthless. Dashing, maybe. But never ruthless.”   
  
“Good to know.”  
  
“You know Henry could never be disappointed in you right?”

Emma’s shoulders sagged and she twisted around, setting down the plate behind her. “That might be what I’m worried most about.”  
  
“That should be the bottom of the list.”   
  
“You don’t really know him.”   
  
“And you’re pulling at straws.”

“It’s just that I’ve sacrificed a lot for this or something that sounds a little less melodramatic,” she said, pressing her palms into the edge of the table. “And Henry’s only got me as far as parents go and that’s my fault and he’s always at M’s and David’s apartment and I didn’t know about that history test.”  
  
“He got an A on that.”   
  
“That was because of you. I didn’t know any of those dates.”   
  
“I’d be happy to help again,” Killian said, staring at her and doing his best not to blink. She twisted her hands again, toying with the edges of her fingernails and this might actually be the longest ten-minute break in the history of filming.

“I bet he’d like that.”  
  
“Good. So would I.”   
  
“Really?”   
  
“You don’t have to sound so stunned every time, Swan,” Killian said, pulling apart her hands with his own. Her eyes flashed down, staring at them and nodding slowly. “I can guarantee I’m not lying to you.”   
  
About that at least.

Fuck. He really was an asshole.

“Believing you is a bit of a work in progress,” she mumbled.

“I can wait.”  
  
Emma stared at him – like she was waiting for the _but_ or the list of demands that came along with the promises and her mouth dropped open a bit when she realized neither one of those things were coming.

He could be better.

And he could wait.

He could be someone his brother would _actually_ be proud of – not someone who walked away or didn’t believe in anything or was fairly positive everything he’d ever loved would, eventually, be yanked away from him.

And he’d be enough for Emma Swan.

“Killian, you ready to go?” Regina asked, heels sounding like a jackhammer on the studio floors. Emma tried to move, but Killian’s fingers wrapped around her wrist, holding her in place as he kept his eyes straight on her.

“Yeah, let’s get this over with.”  
  
“Emma,” Regina continued, voice almost sounding friendly and Killian would have to thank her for that later. Add an extra olive in the martini or something. “I think they want you to do your talking head now, just to kind of keep things on schedule.”   
  
“Oh, yeah, absolutely,” Emma said briskly, pulling her hand away from Killian’s and standing up. She glanced back at him, the smile on her face wide and earnest. “I think you should probably make cookies. That’ll totally beat Graham. What does he know about baking anyway?  He’s good at meat and like building his own fires or something.”   
  
“Noted, Swan, thank you.”   
  
She nodded once, still smiling as she leaned forward and kissed his cheek quickly before calling for Ruby and walking towards the door of the studio.

And, Goddamn, if he wasn’t _absolutely_ going to make cookies now.

“You look like the cat that ate the canary,” Regina said, jerking his attention back to the very real cooking show he still had to take part in.

“And you look smug. Save your _I told you so_ speech or whatever, Robin already gave it yesterday.”   
  
“So I heard.”

“You two talk about everything?”  
  
“That’s usually how relationships work. Good ones at least.”   
  
“Yuh huh.”   
  
“You tell her about Gold yet?” Killian groaned, rolling his head back and pressing his fingertips into his cheekbones. “I’ll take that as a  
no, then.”   
  
“It hasn’t really come up.”

“Too busy acting like teenagers?”  
  
“Your fianc é was the one who asked how kissing worked yesterday.”   
  
“Yeah, I don’t think you should be giving him any advice,” Regina said pointedly, shifting her weight on her heels. “He’s been doing a pretty good job on his own for the last five years.”   
  
“That’s not something I need to know.”   
  
Regina shrugged. “You should tell her about Gold.”   
  
“You’re all pro-this now?”   
  
“I am, always, pro-you and I can’t remember the last time I saw you smile this much. Or saw Emma smile this much, honestly. So, sure, I am pro-this whatever it is. But you should tell her about Gold and the deal and then you two should stop making out in the pantry while you’re filming because it took me nearly the entire second round to persuade them not to keep that footage.”   
  
Killian squeezed his eyes shut – he’d probably have to give Regina unlimited martinis for the rest of the week. And he realized, again, that he might actually be the luckiest bastard in the entire world for the one night she’d decided to walk into his restaurant and decide he was some sort of project she had to take on.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he mumbled.

“And how exactly do you think Emma would have reacted if I hadn’t?” Killian sighed. “That’s what I figured,” Regina said, smug look back on her face. “I’m just saying, you two have already sparked some rumors and that’s good for TV, but I’ve got a pretty good feeling that she spooks easily, so unless you want to actually define this _whatever_ and go public, then stop making out while you’re filming.”   
  
“How did you know there was no definition?”   
  
“Because you’re you and you haven’t done something like this in the entire time I’ve known you.”   
  
“What is this? Exactly?”   
  
Regina stared at him speculatively and Killian just grinned in response, enjoying the teasing a bit more than he probably should. “You falling in love with Emma Swan. Obviously.”

He didn’t say anything – couldn’t come up with an argument that wouldn’t paint him firmly in _obviously_ territory. So he sat still, eyes falling away from Regina and, somehow, that was worse. She laughed at him, heels moving as she turned back towards the set.

“C’mon,” Regina called. “Dessert time.”

The next thirty minutes passed in a blur of sugar and flour and zucchini – which threw Killian off for all of five seconds before he remembered zucchini actually went pretty well with nutmeg and then he was off.

He saw Emma walk back into the studio just before judging, standing on the side of the set with Ruby and Belle next to her. She smiled at him as the three judges took a bite of the cookie and if he wasn’t desperately trying to avoid the melodramatic he would have considered _that_ a better win than beating Graham in the dessert round.

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t go with chocolate,” Tink said, laughing as she spoke. Killian lifted one eyebrow, eyes darting towards Emma who was still smiling at him.

He hadn’t used chocolate at all.

He had, however, made frosting – copious amounts, chock full of vanilla and sprinkled with more cinnamon and nutmeg and Tink ate the entire cookie.

Graham’s ice cream had melted in the machine.

And – after being forced to walk down the hallway and then back so it looked as if the judges were deliberating on camera – Killian won Chopped.

Graham groaned when they showed his ice cream soup underneath the plate cover and Killian's eyes immediately sought out Emma on the other side of the studio, green eyes bright and the smile on her face making him drift right back to the melodramatic.

“Congratulations, Jones,” Graham said, sticking his hand out in the space between them.

“Yeah, thanks. Sorry about the ice cream machine.”  
  
“Ah, got too fancy for my own good,” he laughed. “And I’m glad you got a chance to show off a little bit in front of Emma.”   
  
“Excuse me?”   
  
“I won’t say anything, but it’s a little obvious. Almost painfully, all things considered.”   
  
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”   
  
“She didn’t tell you?”   
  
“Tell me?”   
  
“That we went out. A couple of months ago.”   
  
Killian’s stomach was on the floor. Or maybe in his throat. And he was more angry than he thought he’d be. And jealous. Again.

“That so?” he said slowly, the sound of Emma’s sneakers approaching him the only thing that kept him rooted to the spot.

Graham nodded. “Yeah, just dinner one night. Ruby set it up. She’s far more interested in you than me.”  
  
Killian didn’t say anything else, Emma suddenly next to him, hand falling on his shoulder as she muttered _congratulations_ in his ear. “Anyway,” Graham continued. “Figured I’d let you know. And congratulations again. I’ll see you guys at the next promotion.”   
  
And then he was gone and Killian still wasn’t certain where his stomach had ended up.

This was far too much information for one day.

“Hey,” Emma said softly, fingers brushing over his neck, just above the collar of his shirt. “You made cookies.”  
  
“As per instructions, Swan.”   
  
She laughed, turning so she was standing in front of him, the smile on her face making him wish his stomach would return to its appropriate place so it could flip at the look of her. “There aren’t any left.”   
  
“They were a bit of a hit.”   
  
“Of course they were,” she said, hands running up and down his arms. He could feel how tense he was under her touch, the way he was glancing over her head as Graham’s words lingered in his head and that uncertainty and lack of confidence returned in full-force. “You alright?” Emma asked. “You won!”   
  
“I did, love,” he agreed. “Just thinking.”   
  
“What did Graham say?”   
  
“How do you know Graham said anything?”   
  
“Because you should be thrilled. You made a zucchini cookie that was so good I can’t even have one and you’re not even excited. Now, come on, what did he say?”   
  
He took a deep breath, trying to come up with the right words that wouldn’t make him sound like a child. There weren’t any. He was acting like a child. “You went out with Graham.”   
  
Emma groaned softly, but her hands stayed trained on his arms, tightening slightly as she spoke. “Yeah. Not really willingly though.”   
  
“That sounds vaguely evil.”   
  
“It was Ruby’s idea,” she sighed. “And, you know, it wasn’t _evil._  It also wasn’t a lot of fun. Which is why I never called.”   
  
“No?”

She’d called him.

Granted that had been nearly a month ago, but she’d done it. And that meant something. It had to mean something.

Probably.

Jeez.

“No,” Emma repeated. “I didn’t see him again until we filmed those first promos. And I’ve barely talked to him since.” She narrowed her eyes at him, smile pulling on her lips and Killian tried not to look as ridiculous as he felt. “Why?” she asked. “Are you jealous?”  
“Look who’s talking – you with your guacamole metaphors and questions.”  
  
Emma laughed loudly, stepping towards him and resting her forehead on his shoulder. His hand came up to wrap around her waist instinctively and this was not the under-the-radar Regina had suggested.

At all.

“Even footing,” she mumbled.

“So it’d seem, love,” he answered, brushing his lips over the top of her head without even thinking about the half a dozen crew members still in the studio.

“There just wasn’t...anything,” Emma said, lifting her head back up to look at him.

“Where?”  
  
“With Graham.”   
  
“And now?”

Emma looked at him for a moment and the seconds seemed to drag. “Now there is.”  
Killian nodded and it wasn’t a definition and it wasn’t an explanation, but, for now it was enough. “I made more cookies,” he said softly.

“What?” Emma gaped at him, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. He grinned at her, hand tightening until the back of her jacket was bunched between his fingers. “Thought it might be necessary.”  
  
“You were that confident in zucchini cookies?”   
  
“I was that confident in you wanting to eat my food.”   
  
Emma rolled her eyes, as she walked back towards his station and the cookie sheet that still had two extra cookies sitting on top of it. “That ego is really something else.” He shrugged and she bit down on the cookie, frosting lingering on the edges of her lips in a way that _absolutely_ wasn’t fair.

“Well?” he prompted.

“The ego seems warranted,” she sighed. “How come you don’t make this kind of stuff more often?”  
  
“What do you mean, Swan?”   
  
“I mean why don’t you have a regular dessert menu at The Jolly and why aren’t these cookies in grocery stores across the country?”

He shrugged again. “You’re far too generous with your compliments.”  
  
“I’m serious.”   
  
“The desserts are for me, Swan. The baking is for me. I told you, it’s what I do when I can’t handle anything else. If I started to sell that, I wouldn’t have an outlet for anything.”   
  
“And you need that? An outlet?”   
  
His eyes flashed up and _God_ she could read him better than anyone he’d ever met. Maybe even better than Liam had. Better than Milah.

And that was the first time Killian had thought of that name in a very long time – it was usually just _her_ , a refusal to acknowledge everything he lost tied up in one moment and one name and one face.

Emma smiled at him and he got the distinct impression that, maybe, he’d suddenly found something in another moment and _her_ name and face.

Melodramatic asshole.

“Is it because of the expansion?” she asked, thumb pulling across her lip as she licked the frosting off her finger.

“Some of it, I guess,” Killian admitted, suddenly treading on dangerous dessert-ridden terrain. “It’s a much bigger space than I thought it would be.”

“Is that bad?”  
  
“Just expensive.” Emma nodded knowingly. “Can I ask you a question?” he asked.

“Sure.”  
  
“How come you don’t have a restaurant?”   
  
“What?” Her foot slid out from underneath her as she pushed herself away from where she was leaning on his station and her eyes went wide.

“You’re good, Swan. And you fall into a rhythm when you cook, all quick movements and everything _works_ . It just seems to make sense.”   
  
She stood up straighter, teeth tugging on her lower lip. “I thought about it. A long time ago.”   
  
“But?”   
  
“But then Ruby showed up and brought me to the network and I got the show and it was doing so well that I kind of forgot about restaurants. I figured _this_ was the safe bet, you know? And now that’s kind of slipping away.”   
  
“It’s not,” he countered and Emma made a dismissive sound in the back of her throat. “Honestly, Swan.”

“Look who’s doling out compliments now,” she laughed. “Nah, restaurants aren’t for me anymore. Although, I will tell you that I enjoyed chopping vegetables for you. It was strangely soothing or something.”  
  
Killian grinned at her, tugging her closer to him and kissing her softly. And she seemed to sigh against him and _that_ wasn’t fair either.

They were horrible at this.

She pulled away before he was even ready to consider stopping, keeping her forehead rested against his while her fingers brushed over the back of his hair. “We should probably stop doing this on set,” Emma mumbled, still so close he could almost feel her lips move against his when she spoke.  

“Probably.”

“Work in progress.”  
  
“An admirable effort.”   
  
Emma huffed out a laugh, moving her head back and staring at him with a look that nearly knocked all the air out of him. “You still want to come to Granny’s?” she asked softly.

“Of course.”

She nodded once – like she was convincing herself he wasn’t lying – and leaned forward to kiss him again quickly. “Make sure you order your own plate of onion rings, because Henry’s not good at sharing them.”

“Duly noted.”

Emma smiled at him, hand dropping away from his neck to wrap around his fingers and lead him away from set.

* * *

 

“Killian!”

Henry nearly knocked over several glasses as he practically leapt out of the corner booth in Granny’s, sprinting across the diner floor and earning a low chuckle from the man next to Emma. Who still had his fingers wrapped up in hers.

“Hi Henry,” Killian said, smile threatening to take up his entire face.

Henry grinned in response, bobbing up and down on the balls of his feet like he did when he got particularly _excited_ about something and Emma couldn’t even bring herself to be frustrated that her kid hadn’t even acknowledged her yet.

“How was the show? Who won? Did you repurpose ingredients?” Henry asked, rattling off questions like he was being paid by the letter. “Because you have to repurpose the ingredients or you’ll totally get chopped. That’s what we figured out this weekend, right mom?”  
  
“Oh, I’m here too then?” Emma joked.

Henry groaned loudly and Emma heard David laugh pointedly from the booth on the other side of the room. “Hi, mom,” Henry replied dutifully and Emma reached forward to brush his hair off his forehead.

“Hi kid,” she said. “You didn’t drive M’s nuts this afternoon, did you?”

“Of course he didn’t,” Mary Margaret yelled, twisting around the back of the booth and only moving when David muttered something about _aggravating her back_.

“Eventually you’re just going to have to invest in a bubble or something,” Emma laughed, pushing on Henry’s shoulder to turn him back towards the table. Killian followed behind her as she walked, fingers tightening a fraction of an inch when David’s gaze lingered on their hands a few seconds longer than necessary. “Just put M’s inside and then let her go out and take on the world on her own.”  
  
“You’re hysterical, Emma, you know that?” David muttered and she grinned at him, sliding into the booth, Henry and Killian on either side of her.

And that seemed like a sign. Or something.

“Years of practice,” she shot back. David rolled his eyes.

“So,” Mary Margaret said pointedly, cutting into the middle of a patented Nolan-sibling fight like they were still sitting in the Blanchard’s living room on Main Street. “Spill, Em, how did it go? Any crazy food?”  
  
“Dragon tongue beans,” Killian answered, the disgust in his voice enough to make Emma’s smile widen even more.

“That sounds awesome!” Henry exclaimed. “What’d you make with them, mom? What round where they in?”  
  
“Is he always this full of questions?” Killian asked, voice lilting into Emma’s ear and she suddenly realized that his thigh was pressed up against hers underneath the table. And they still hadn’t actually _defined_ anything.

They’d kissed instead.

Again.

“Always,” Emma promised, wrapping her arm around Henry’s shoulders and ignoring the soon-to-come groan at this motherly display of affection. “Alright, kid, let’s start at the top. They were not awesome. They were horrible and they taste horrible and I don’t know why anyone would eat them. I didn’t make anything with them. Killian did something with onions that was unfairly delicious. And they were main course.”  
  
“Mom,” Henry sighed, rolling his head onto her shoulder. “You didn’t do anything with them? That wasn’t part of the plan.”   
  
“I know.”   
  
“But main course seems good, right?” Mary Margaret added, a picture of sunshine and optimism on the other side of the booth. “You didn’t get cut first.”   
  
“I didn’t,” Emma agreed, biting her lip as she tried to push of the wave of nerves threatening to drown here right there in the middle of the diner on Leonard Street. “I got chopped second.”

She could feel Henry sigh next to her, his shoulders moving as he exhaled and Emma bit her lip so hard she could actually taste blood. She blinked quickly, trying to avoid the wave or the tide or whatever metaphor she was going with when she felt a hand on her knee and Killian’s eyes on her.

He was ignoring David’s very obvious glare, eyes trained on her – all blue and supportive and not talking about how he’d actually won Chopped that afternoon. And she was in way over her head.

“You did do something with the beans, Swan,” Killian said softly, every other head at the table snapping towards him when he spoke. “You cooked them. Very well, actually.”  
  
“How do you know they were good?” David asked sharply and Emma rolled her eyes. “I thought only the judges ate the food.”   
  
“Yeah, well, I’ve kind of got an agreement with the chef.”   
  
“That so?”

Mary Margaret’s hand landed on her husband’s shoulder and she widened her eyes in warning. David huffed out a deep breath, eyes, finally, pulling away from Killian’s to stare at Emma. “What’s he talking about?” he asked.

“We’ve kind of been stealing each other’s food after rounds,” Emma explained. “They’re long days, you know, and the catering table is horrible for a network built on food. He’s a far better option.”  
  
“Wow, Swan,” Killian laughed. “I didn’t know you felt so strongly about my food. Glad to see I’m just your best option.”   
  
Emma grinned at him and he answered her in kind and she didn’t even care how uncomfortable David was. “Seriously, Uncle David, you should try some of Killian’s food. It’s really good,” Henry added and Emma tried not to slump down in the booth   
  
“When have you had his food?” David asked sharply.

Henry glanced warily at Emma, eyes wide and she glanced up at the ceiling of the restaurant, wondering if Granny was actually avoiding the table because they were arguing so loudly. “Couple of weeks ago,” Emma answered. “Killian helped Henry study for an American history exam.”  
  
“What?”   
  
“David,” Mary Margaret sighed, but he just shook his head quickly.

“No, no,” he muttered. “Why didn’t I know that happened?”  
  
“Because it’s none of your business?” Emma asked, voice rising of its own accord. “I don’t have to give you a detailed description of where Henry and I are going every night.”   
  
“Weeks ago, Emma. That was _weeks_ ago. And it never came up once? Not even at Halloween? I tried to tell you something I thought was important and you brushed me off. Is that why? Because you were nervous that you’d already involved Henry in all of this?”

“You’re being an ass again,” Emma hissed.

David made a face, eyes landing on Killian again with a look that made it all too clear he had something he desperately wanted to say. Emma didn’t give him a chance. “And, as previously mentioned, David, none of that is your business. Henry got an A on that exam, so, honestly, that’s all I’m really concerned about.”

She chanced a look at Killian – smiling softly at her out of the corner of her eye – and David deflated slightly. “An A’s really good,” he mumbled. “Good for you, Henry.”  
  
“Killian helped with the dates,” Henry added and David looked like he was about to argue something, but Killian cut him off.

“That was all you,” he said quickly. “I didn’t take the test.”  
  
David didn’t know what to do what that.

“Did you study history, Killian?” Mary Margaret asked, hand still on David’s shoulder.

“They don’t have majors at the Academy,” David muttered and Emma nearly sagged against Henry. Killian’s hand tightened around her knee.

“Actually,” he countered, “they do. It’s still a school, you know. And, to answer, your question, Mary Margaret, I did.”

She nodded quickly, fingers tracing along David’s spine as she tried to keep the conversation on track. Emma appreciated that – until her next question. “At the Academy? What Academy are we talking about here?”  
  
Killian’s eyes darted towards Emma and she tried to apologize without actually saying anything. “He was in the Navy,” Henry answered, voice picking up again. “He told me he knows how to shoot a gun. Kind of like you, Uncle David, only like on a boat.”   
  
“Ship,” Killian corrected softly and Emma’s heart did something _stupid_ at that.

“Ship,” Henry repeated reverently.

“You were in the Navy, Killian?” Mary Margaret asked. “How did you end up on Iron Chef? And with your own restaurant?”  
  
“It’s kind of a long story,” he said. “One David apparently didn’t go into much detail about.”   
  
“I didn’t really want to know. Figured it was kind of like cheating.”   
  
Killian laughed and stared at Mary Margaret like he’d never quite seen anything like her. He probably hadn’t. She was too nice for her own good. “I appreciate that,” he said and Mary Margaret just shrugged softly. “I was in the Navy, for about five years before I left.”   
  
David scoffed and Emma kicked him underneath the table. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Unfortunately it wasn’t a very positive end for either us – me or the Navy. My brother had died in action and without him there, there didn’t seem to be much of a point to serving anymore. So I left – without much permission. Any really.”  
  
“You left?” Henry repeated and Killian’s jaw flexed.

Emma was going to kill David. Right there in the booth. And then they’d never be able to come back to Granny’s.

“Wasn’t my finest moment,” Killian said quickly.

“Is that how you lost your hand? When your brother died?”  
  
“Henry!” Emma, Mary Margaret and David spoke at once, voices sharp in the restaurant. Emma was positive she saw Granny turn around and walk back into the kitchen when she heard the three of them yell. She kicked David again.

“It’s alright, Swan,” Killian said softly, thumb moving in a small circle across the bottom of her thigh. “And you don’t have to keep kicking your brother.”  
  
She glared at him pointedly, David muttering under his breath on the other side of the table. “Sorry,” Henry said quietly, but Killian just shook his head.

“Don’t be. It’s a fair question.” He took a deep breath, glancing at Emma once before leaning around her and meeting Henry’s curious gaze head on. “I didn’t lose my hand in the Navy. About a year and a half after, actually.”  
  
“How?”

“Henry,” Emma whispered sharply, shaking her head. Killian pulled his hand off her leg and moved it back up to her shoulder, squeezing slightly in silent contradiction. She didn’t say anything else – ignoring the way her mind raced at the feel of his hand and the admission that he hadn’t lost his hand in the Navy.

David looked a little nervous and she could hear what he’d told her in the kitchen two weeks ago –  _And, probably, who that woman tattooed on his arm is._

She didn’t know how she knew, probably something about being an open book to each other or some other absurd nonsense that made her feel more connected to Killian Jones than just about anyone else in her life, but Emma was positive it had to do with _her_ – Milah. It was all about her, somehow, his hand and the way he seemed to kind of hate himself sometimes and that, admittedly very attractive, determination to prove himself.

“Car accident,” Killian said simply, not breaking away from Henry’s gaze. “I was 27 and I got in a cab one night and we didn’t realize the driver was drunk. It all happened kind of fast, honestly. He was driving back uptown and tried to take a left and didn’t see the car coming right at him until it was too late.”  
  
Henry bit his lip – looking so much like Emma she had to blink a few times to stop herself from actually starting to cry at the sight – and the entire table sat silent for what felt like several decades.

“I’m sorry,” Henry said softly and before Emma could stop him he reached around her, hand resting on Killian’s forearm, just above his brace.

And he didn’t pull away, didn’t move an inch – just looked slightly stunned at the twelve-year-old kid in front of him and Emma was absolutely on the verge of hysterics.

“I, uh, I didn’t know that part,” David said suddenly, making Emma’s head whip towards him.  Killian hummed questioningly in the back of his throat, fingers dancing along the bottom of Emma’s head as they pushed into her hair. “I didn’t know there was a drunk driver involved. In the accident, I mean.”  
  
His hand stopped moving and Emma held her breath – that was a David Nolan sorry-I-was-a-dick-but-I’m-just-trying-to-protect-my-sister apology. And she wasn’t sure anyone except her and Mary Margaret would figure it out.

“Looks like you need better background checks then,” Killian said. “I distinctly remembering filling out an obscene amount of NYPD paperwork when I woke up. Luckily I’m right handed, so it wasn’t a big deal.”  
  
Emma’s whole body nearly fell over with slightly-manic sounding laughter and Killian grinned at her, moving his eyebrows quickly. David nodded slowly, smile spreading across his face as he stuck his hand out over the table. “I’m sorry,” he said and it sounded like he meant it and Emma couldn’t figure out if she was going to faint or start to cry.

“What is happening?” she muttered, mostly to Mary Margaret who just shrugged in response.

“I like him,” David said, nodding towards Killian. “And if he can get Henry an A on an American history exam, then that seems pretty good. Even if I do have a minor in history.”  
  
“European,” Emma pointed out. “And only because you had too many AP credits when you got to school and walked in with a minor. That doesn’t count.”   
  
“Whatever.”

And then it was fine – or as fine as a quasi-family dinner in an otherwise abandoned diner could be on a Tuesday night.

Granny, finally, showed up at the table, bringing a pre-dinner plate of onion rings for Henry. And he only objected slightly when Killian moved around Emma to grab one off the plate, claiming he had to _test them_ before flashing a smile at her that went straight to her toes.

And she was so goddamn happy her face hurt from smiling.

“You know,” Henry said once their food arrived later, chewing on a grilled cheese in between syllables. “You never told us who actually won today.”  
  
“Chew, kid.” He rolled his eyes in response and Emma bit into her grilled cheese, earning herself a frustrated groan from both her kid and her brother. “You’re both horribly impatient. You know they put the show on TV.”   
  
“And why would we do that when you’re here to tell us?” David asked.

“Don’t do it Emma,” Ruby said sharply, walking into the diner with a frustrated look on her face.

“Where have you been?” Emma asked, sitting up a bit straighter as her producer marched into the restaurant, only pausing long enough to grab a bear claw off the display on the counter. “I thought you were on your way out like hours ago.”  
  
“I was,” Ruby said, wrapping her foot around the bottom of a chair to drag it to the end of the table. “But then I ran into Regina and she was on the warpath because someone,” she glared pointedly at Killian, “walked out without filming his talking head. You need to answer your phone.”   
  
“It’s on silent,” he muttered and Emma bit back a laugh. “And I can do it later. It’s not like they’re putting it on TV tomorrow.”   
  
“You know what I just did?” Killian shook his head slowly, holding an onion ring halfway in front of his mouth. “I just spent the last hour with _your_ producer explaining to Zelena why everything wasn’t filmed yet and how no one had managed to stop the _two of you_ from walking off set together. Jeez, I thought this morning was bad, but this is worse. You’re not even official and you’re already messing everything up.”

“What happened this morning?” Henry asked, a picture of curious innocence. Emma waved her hand quickly in front of him, trying not to kick Ruby under the table as well.

“Official, huh?” David repeated, laughing slightly under her breath and Emma couldn’t quite deal with the whiplash of that. Killian looked slightly overwhelmed – for someone who claimed they didn’t have a family, Emma certainly appeared to have plenty of people ready and willing to butt their way into things that weren’t their business.

She opened her mouth – not certain who she was going to answer first or how she was going to explain any of this when she couldn’t quite figure it out herself. Except she never even got a word out.

“It’s a boy!” Mary Margaret shouted and every head at the table turned towards her, each mouth hanging open slightly.  
  
“What?” Emma muttered, tears pricking her eyes almost immediately.

“It’s a boy,” Mary Margaret repeated, ignoring David’s frustrated groan.

“We weren’t going to tell them yet,” he said.   
  
“Yeah, well, you weren’t supposed to be an asshole to Killian again either and yet here we are.” David’s open-mouthed stare quickly turned into a smile and he leaned forward to kiss Mary Margaret quickly as Henry groaned loudly. Emma might have groaned a bit too.

“They do that all the time,” Henry said, turning to look at Killian who just smirked at the overwhelmingly _family_ moment in front of him. He still had his fingers wrapped around the back of Emma’s neck and, for one moment, she let herself lean into the touch – ignoring her brother’s happiness for a second or two of her own.

“It’s not the worst thing in the world,” Killian muttered.

Henry groaned again. “I guess.”  
  
“Let’s pump the brakes on _that_ conversation real quick,” Emma said and Henry nearly slid down the back of the booth as Killian nodded and kissed the top of her head. The whole thing was overwhelmingly domestic. “When did you find out?” Emma asked, trying to refocus the conversation on anything that wasn’t her. Or her relationship.

If that’s the word they were using.

“Couple of days ago,” Mary Margaret answered, pulled flush against David’s side. Emma was positive she’d never seen her brother so happy.

“And you didn’t say anything?”  
  
“You’ve been busy.”   
  
“I wish everyone would stop using that as an excuse.”

“It’s true,” David shrugged.

Emma pressed her lips together and shook her head and she absolutely wasn’t crying. She wasn’t. She was just kind of overwhelmed. But not crying.   
  
A boy.

They were going to have a boy.

“Em, are you crying?” David asked, voice tinged with surprised laughter.

“No,” Emma said quickly and she knew she wasn’t fooling anyone. “Of course not. Being emotional about you having a kid, a _son_ , is totally out of the question. Whatever. I don’t care at all.”   
  
“I thought you didn’t want to know,” Ruby cut in. “Weren’t we all instructed to purchase gender neutral gifts? Because I was all about decking that kid out in red from head to toe.”   
  
“Is red gender neutral?” Emma asked.

Ruby just shrugged. “I honestly don’t care. It’s a good color. I had a whole plan, so it better at least be good enough for tiny-Nolan because that’s what he’s getting from here on out.”  
  
“I’m sure tiny-Nolan will appreciate whatever you buy him,” Mary Margaret said. “And we might not have to call him that much longer either.”   
  
“You are just chock full of secrets today, aren’t you?” Emma laughed, grabbing an onion ring off Henry’s plate and grinning at him when he cried in disbelief of what she’d done.

“Not secrets _really,_ ” Mary Margaret countered. “Just previously unheard information.”   
  
“Sounds a lot like the definition of secrets.”  
  
“We might have a name picked out?”   
  
“Might?”   
  
Mary Margaret nodded, glancing at David. “Leo,” he said softly and Emma was _absolutely_ crying now, fingers rubbing roughly at her cheeks as she tried to get rid of the evidence as quickly as possible.

“Oh,” she muttered softly, a half-eaten onion ring still in her other hand. “Of course.”

“Who’s Leo?” Henry asked and Emma took a deep breath through her nose, lifting her head back up to find that Mary Margaret was crying too.

Killian probably thought they were all crazy.

“My dad,” Mary Margaret said.

“I’ve never met him.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, you wouldn’t have. He, uh, he died when I was in college. But he was the most important person in my life for a really long time.”   
  
“It’s perfect, M’s,” Emma said, meaning every word.

Emma had been fifteen.

Mary Margaret and David were sophomores and it had all happened incredibly fast – too fast for anyone to really be able to process any of it. Mr. Blanchard had been diagnosed in August and he was gone by Christmas.

Just days before.

The funeral was two days before Christmas.

Mary Margaret didn’t cry at the funeral. Her voice didn’t break when she gave the eulogy. She hardly even nodded at the line of Storybrooke residents filed out of the church, shaking her hand and telling her how sorry they were for her loss.

She didn’t cry until the end, until they walked away from the grave site and turned their backs on the casket. And then she nearly fell against David, his arms wrapped tightly around her while Emma tried to do _something_ , rubbing circles on Mary Margaret’s back while she cried until she couldn’t breathe anymore.

And that was when Emma _knew_ – there was no one stronger than Mary Margaret. Not in Storybrooke and, likely, not in the entire world.

She paid for college on her own from there on out – worked two jobs during her final two years and then got a GA position so she could get her masters. She student-taught in the Bronx and held after-school reading groups for her students and Emma had all but forced Henry into her class when he’d been that age.

Mary Margaret was, at times, painfully positive, certain the world would just _work_ the way it was supposed to and Emma’s natural cynicism fought against that more often than not, but no one deserved some sort of metaphorical happy ending more.

And no one would ever be loved more than the soon-to-be Leo Nolan.

“Don’t waste all your tears on that quite yet, because I’ve got one more secret,” Mary Margaret warned.

Emma nodded, sitting up a little straighter as Killian’s arm wrapped tightly around her shoulders. “Ok,” she said. “Do your worst. Or best.”  
  
“We picked a middle name too.”   
  
“I don’t know what you guys are talking about with me, you’re the busy ones. Do we have other relatives to honor with names?”

“See, that’s where we kind of need your permission?”  
  
“Mine?” Emma repeated, stunned slightly. “What for?”   
  
“Well, you and Henry actually,” Mary Margaret answered, smile nearly taking over every part of her face. “Tiny-Nolan’s full name will, we hope, be Leo Henry Nolan.”

Emma’s head landed on Killian’s shoulder before she could stop herself and the tears were just absurd at this point. She felt him laugh softly underneath her, hand moving up and down her arm and making her sleeve bunch against his fingers.

“You want to name him after me?” Henry asked, nearly screaming the words.

“Kind of,” David said. “We just thought it’d be cool if he knew who his heroes should be from the get-go, you know what I mean? And, well, we can’t really use Emma as a middle name, although we considered it, so we thought Henry kind of got both of you in one fell swoop.”  
  
“What do you think?” Mary Margaret asked quietly, eyes wide when she looked at Emma.

“I think it’s perfect,” she said, not entirely sure how she managed to talk when she couldn’t really breathe. That seemed to be a trend for the day.

Mary Margaret reached across the table, ignoring David’s protests about _stretching too far_ and squeezed Emma’s hand tightly in hers. “Me too,” she whispered.

“Now, come on,” David said, pulling Mary Margaret back against the booth as both Emma and Ruby rolled their eyes at the absurdity of it. “We told our secrets or news or whatever. Now you’ve got to tell us who won today.”  
  
Emma glanced questioningly at Ruby who just shrugged. “Fine,” she sighed. “But no specifics or anything. We’ve got to at least act like we play by the rules on this.”   
  
“To be fair,” Killian added. “Regina absolutely tells Robin everything that happens on set. And probably my hostess too. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were talking about it now.”

“I knew she would,” Ruby hissed, scowling. “I knew it! And she acted like it was all under lock and key and..”  
  
“Guys,” David cut in sharply. “Who won?”   
  
“Oh,” Ruby said flippantly, shaking her hair off her shoulders, the light of the diner’s overhead bulbs practically reflecting off her red highlights. “Killian did.”   
  
“For real?” Henry exclaimed, nearly tackling Emma as he moved to look at a slightly-embarrassed Killian. “What’d you make for dessert? Who’d you beat? Was there something super crazy in the final basket?”

“Breathe,” Emma laughed, pushing Henry back into his seat.

Killian held up three fingers, making sure he didn't miss any of Henry’s questions. “Cookies, per your mom’s request. Graham. Zucchini, but that’s deceptively crazy because it actually works pretty well with dessert-like spices, so I’m not sure that there’s an actual answer to the final question.”  
  
“Were there extra cookies?”   
  
“You literally just ate a plate of onion rings.”   
  
“Were there extra cookies?” Henry repeated.

“No,” Killian laughed. “And even if there were, your mom absolutely would have eaten them.”  
  
“Rude,” Emma mumbled and Killian’s side moved slightly when he laughed again in response. Mary Margaret looked like she was going to start crying again at the sight of early-relationship- _whatever_ banter.

“I can’t believe you ate the extra cookies,” Henry groaned at her.

“They were good!”  
  
“I’ll make you a deal,” Killian said, looking at Henry over the top of Emma’s head. “You stop texting while you’re in class and the next time you’re at The Jolly we’ll make some kind of dessert again, ok?”

“Like the cookies you made for the team?”  
  
“I seem to remember I promised brownies before.”   
  
“You did.”   
  
“Then brownies seems fair.”

Mary Margaret sniffed audibly and Ruby practically fell out of her chair when she started laughing. “What is your deal, M’s?” Emma asked, eyebrows rising close to her hairline. “We still on names?”  
  
“No, no, I’m fine,” she said, looking like the freaking _sun_ in the middle of the diner as she beamed across the table. “Pregnancy hormones.”

Emma didn’t respond, positive it absolutely _wasn’t_ pregnancy hormones, but that wasn’t a conversation she was willing to have in this suddenly very-crowded booth. She stole another onion ring off her kid’s plate instead.

They were waiting for Granny to wrap up half a dozen leftover baked goods for Henry half an hour later when David walked up to Emma at the end of the counter, holding his hands up as he moved towards her, an apologetic look on his face.

“What?” she sighed, not quite able to stay mad at him.

“You know what.”  
  
“I’d love to hear you say it.”   
  
“I’m sorry. For being an ass. You know, again.”   
  
“I don’t get why,” Emma said, crossing her arms and leaning against the counter. She glanced to the other end of the restaurant, Killian next to Henry with his hand on his shoulder, talking about the soccer game he’d had over the weekend.

“I worry about you,” David answered, like that explained everything.

“You worry about everything.”  
  
“Especially you though. I wouldn’t have thought he’d tell you about the Navy.”   
  
“You kind of backed him into a corner.”   
  
“He tell you anything else?” Emma sighed, exasperation written across her face. “Sorry, sorry,” David muttered. “I know I’m doing it again.”   
  
“I need you to let me figure this out. I don’t have any answers for you yet and I’m not going to push him to talk to me until he wants to. So, frankly, take your background check and shove it.”   
  
David laughed loudly, shaking his head as he wrapped Emma in a hug, hand wrapping around the back of her head. “I can do that,” he agreed. “He seems like a good guy. And Henry really seems to like him.”   
  
“He does, but that doesn’t change anything you know. No one is encroaching on your status here.”   
  
“What do you mean?” David asked and Emma just stared at him – he wasn’t a very good liar either.

“Henry will still want to hang out with you. And you’re just as important as ever. This is all still really new and really undefined and I need you to stop trying to scare Killian away.”  
  
“That is the opposite of what I’m trying to do,” David promised. “You’re happy, Em. I just want to make sure you’ve got all the facts.   
  
“I can get ‘em on my own.”   
  
“I don’t doubt that.”   
  
“You ready to go, Swan?” Killian asked. Emma spun around, vaguely terrified at how much he heard, but the smile on his face made her believe he was more focused on _her_ than he was on the discussion she’d been having with her brother.

“You don’t have to walk us back,” she said. “It’s only a couple of blocks.”  
  
“And my restaurant is three blocks away from where you live. I should probably acknowledge them at some point today, make sure it hasn’t burned down or anything.”

“I doubt Ariel would let that happen.”  
  
Killian nodded solemnly, but his eyes were bright and Emma needed her brother to _move_ . “Mom,” Henry said, skidding to a stop next to Killian, a paper bag clutched in his hand. “If we’re going to go back to The Jolly, you think I can get one of those root beer floats again? It was really good the last time.”   
  
“School night,” Emma said, shaking her head. Henry’s shoulders drooped, but Killian nudged his side, glancing at him with a smirk on his face.

“Next time,” he promised.

“Alright,” Emma muttered, ignoring whatever her pulse was doing. “Come on, let’s head home.”

They’d made quite a trio – walking the ten blocks from Granny’s back downtown and if Emma let herself, it almost felt like _something_. She wouldn’t use the word, couldn’t let herself think _that_ when they hadn’t even defined the whatever.

Her mind, however, had different ideas.

It felt like a family.


	18. Chapter 18

Killian teased Henry while they walked and asked about soccer and school and when his next history exam was. And Henry asked if they had to do promo for the network’s holiday plans and bragged about Emma’s Christmas episode numbers and it wouldn’t have surprised her if her heart actually exploded inside her chest.

The line to The Jolly wasn’t out the door, but it was close – people milling around in the tiny space just off the sidewalk and Emma saw a flash of red hair as Ariel moved around them, trying to direct diners towards now-open tables.

Killian scuffed his foot along the sidewalk, hands stuck in his pockets as he glanced up at Emma underneath his eyelashes. Henry looked between them, smiling with an understanding that made Emma wonder if he was actually an adult in a twelve-year-old’s body.

“You think Roland is in there?” he asked, halfway through the door already.

“Don’t go too far in,” Emma yelled as the door slammed behind Henry. “We’re literally going home now.”

“He’s probably already coerced some ice cream out of Will,” Killian laughed, stepping towards her, but keeping his eyes down towards the sidewalk. “Scarlet’s got a soft spot for precocious kids and he’s been spoiling Roland for far too long.”  
  
“How did he even end up with you?”

“Ah, that’s a rather long story, Swan. And it is a school night.”

“So responsible.”  
  
“Occasionally.” He smirked at her and she wished it wasn’t a school night and her kid wasn’t on the other side of the restaurant door and maybe then they could actually figure out what had happened that day.

“So, today,” Emma mumbled. And maybe _she_ was the twelve-year old.

“Today.”  
  
“Interesting day.”  
  
“That is true.”  
  
“Are you being difficult on purpose or just because you think it’s cute?”  
  
“You think I’m cute, Swan?”

Emma groaned – still somehow charmed by that nonsense – and leaned against the side of the restaurant, pressing the bottom of her foot up against the wall. Killian’s eyes lingered on the bend of her leg, making her skin flush and her teeth dig into her bottom lip.  
  
He took a few steps towards her – slow, cautious steps that belied the vaguely sarcastic comment he’d just shot her way. “It was a good day, too,” he said softly, hand falling to her waist.

“Yeah?”  
  
“Are you asking me if I’m sure?”  
  
“Just confirming.”  
  
“Ah,” he nodded seriously, eyes flashing up towards her and that smirk was _absurd_. “Then, yes, love, feel free to confirm that I do, in fact, think today went pretty well.”  
  
“I’m sorry about David.”  
  
“Don’t be.”  
  
“I think he’s on your side now or in your corner or whatever metaphor you’d like,” Emma continued. “And I’m sorry he and M’s totally skipped out on their reservation. She was disappointed.”  
  
“I kind of figured after a week that’d happen. It’s ok. Ari’s very good at overbooking us, it’s one of her better talents. So it was alright from a restaurant standpoint.”  
  
“But?”

“But,” he laughed, “I think you should tell them to pick another day.”  
  
“I can do that,” Emma promised. “And David won’t be a dick anymore.”  
  
“I promise, love, it’s alright.”  
  
“So you keep saying.”  
  
“I could show you, if that’d make you believe me.”  
  
Emma barely had time to widen her eyes or catch her breath before he kissed her – hand anchored on her waist and lips moving greedily over hers. And she moved with him easily, arms looping around his neck instinctively and hands pushing into his hair and _God_ he was good at this.

His hand found its way under the edge of her shirt again, teasing against skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake that made him chuckle against her lips. Emma’s back pushed up against the wall of the restaurant, spine hitting against stone and making her jerk her hips slightly – although that may have been because he’d started kissing a trail along her jaw, fingers moving around to her back to keep her pressed against him.

They were still on the sidewalk.

Outside his restaurant.

What a weird day.

The door swung open again and Killian jumped away and Emma tried to straighten her shirt and Henry grinned at them like he was the goddamn Cheshire Cat.

“You ready to go mom?” he asked.

“Yeah, you, uh, you saw Roland already?” she stuttered, pushing her hair back behind her ears. Killian was actually blushing, the tips of his ears red.

“Yeah,” Henry said, barely able to keep the laughter from bubbling out of him. He coughed quickly and Emma glanced up at Killian whose grip on the back of his hair was bordering on vice-like. “They were getting ready to leave.”  
  
“Look at that, us too.”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
“Alright, kid, let’s go.”

“See ya, Killian,” Henry said, turning back towards the end of the block. “Brownies. Friday.”  
  
“Deal.”

“So, I’ll probably see you soon,” Emma said softly, suddenly more nervous than she’d been all day. Which, all things considered, was saying something.

“Soon is good,” Killian muttered. “Or before soon?”  
  
“What’s before soon?”  
  
“Sooner.”  
  
“That sounds nice too.” And he beamed at her like they’d actually just defined the relationship or something.  
  
“I’ll bring the brownies to the network.”  
  
“Ok.”  
  
Henry yelled for her from the other side of the block – already impatient now that his brownie deal had been struck. “I better go,” Emma said, rocking back on her heels. “School night and all that.”  
  
“Ok,” Killian repeated and for one vaguely terrifying moment she thought he was just going to walk into The Jolly and that would be that.

But – and she should have realized this from the get-go – he rarely did or said what she expected. So, naturally, he kissed her, lips ghosting over hers quickly – and Henry made some kind of ridiculous noise from the other end of the street and Emma nearly yanked on the front of Killian’s shirt and started making out with him again.

“Good night, Swan,” he muttered softly, taking a step back and grabbing the door behind him.

“Night,” she mumbled, turning around towards Henry, wondering the last time she’d had a day quite like that one.

Turned out sooner was more difficult to come by than Emma hoped.

They texted and talked and _God_ he sent pictures of a whole plate of brownies two days after that moment outside of The Jolly, but she hadn’t actually seen Killian in person for a week and she was going a little stir crazy.

And that was part of the problem.

She shouldn’t be stir anything. She should be focused on the show and the promotional schedule Ruby had just handed her and the soccer game Henry had that afternoon. Not Killian or his text messages or the way she absolutely _did not_ miss kissing him.

“You could just go to The Jolly, you know,” Ruby said, making Emma practically jump out of her chair. She shot a pointed gaze her way as she walked towards her desk, eyes landing on Emma’s feet and their position on the corner of the imitation wood, before sinking down in the chair opposite. “It’d be easier than whatever it is you’re doing now.”  
  
“And what am I doing now?”  
  
“Stewing. Loudly.”  
  
“How can a person stew loudly? It’s not even an action. It’s a state of being.”

“Well, whatever it is, you’re doing it very loudly.”  
  
“I don’t have time for this, Rubes.”  
  
“Yeah, you look totally busy.”  
  
“We have a promotional thing later this afternoon.”  
  
And maybe that was why Emma was so stressed out or stewing or whatever. Because he’d never _actually_ brought the brownies to the network and hadn’t said anything about defining the whatever or the fact that they’d made out on seemingly every surface of the Chopped kitchen a week before.

She was absolutely stewing and going stir crazy.

“We do have that that promotional thing,” Ruby said slowly, eyes lighting up. “And I think we should play with this a little bit.”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
Ruby shrugged. “You know. This. It. You and Killian.”  
  
“Me and Killian?” Emma repeated, dragging her feet off the desk and sitting up straighter. Ruby looked nonplussed.

“Exactly that,” she said. “I mean no one’s suggesting you start making out on counters in _front_ of the cameras, but a little sexual tension is good for ratings and you’ve got that in spades and diamonds and clubs.”  
  
“Not hearts?”  
  
“Too cheesy.”  
  
“Obviously.”  
  
Ruby grinned and Emma knew she was a lost cause, knew there was already a plan and absolutely no way for her to work out of it. “I’ve already talked to Regina about it,” Ruby added and Emma felt her whole body deflate slightly.

“What?”  
  
“Don’t freak out.” She almost looked repentant. Almost. But she also looked like this was something she’d spent a lot of time thinking about and that worried Emma just a bit.

“I’m not,” Emma lied. “Just curious when you and Regina got so close.”  
  
“I don’t know if I’d go that far. I’m just saying we talked about using this as a angle and we both think it’s a good one.”  
  
“So I’m an angle now?”  
  
“A vaguely obtuse one.”  
  
“Rude.”  
  
Ruby laughed loudly, grinning at Emma with the kind of look she’d seen before – she had a plan. “You two are drowning in sexual tension. It reached a breaking point during Chopped and I know you haven’t actually _talked_ about it, so I almost feel bad about making you do this. But you should see the comments on some of the promo stuff on the site. People want you together. And if we put you together in the new Thanksgiving and holiday promos, then they’re going to turn in in droves.”  
  
Emma eyed her nervously, silently reminding herself to get Mary Margaret to look at those comments later. “How do you know we haven’t talked yet?”  
  
“Because you’re you,” Ruby said evenly. “And of course you haven’t talked yet. Also because Regina said Killian has made a different dessert every single night and that’s apparently some sort of sign.”  
  
“He stress bakes,” Emma muttered softly, eyes falling to the ground.

“Excuse me?”  
  
“He stress bakes. Like you know my french toast thing? He does the same, but with baked goods. He was supposed to bring some of them here for Henry.”  
“He’s stress baking for Henry?”  
  
“And his soccer team.”  
  
Ruby let out a low whistle, pushing herself out of the chair and leaning across her desk to stare at Emma seriously. “Talk to him. Today.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Exactly what I said. Talk to him. And then make out with him some more. Not on camera if you can help it.”  
  
Emma’s responding laugh was more than a little shaky – stirring around in her chest and making her wonder if she actually _had_ gone crazy. “I know,” she mumbled. “Did Regina say anything else?”  
  
Ruby raised one eyebrow, glancing up at Emma with her palms still planted firmly on top of her desk. “One thing.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“And she’s never seen Killian bake that much in the last five years. And she’s fairly convinced he’s absolutely in love with you.”  
  
“That’s two things,” Emma pointed out, trying her best not to slide off her chair.

Ruby shrugged again. “Come on,” she said, nodding towards the door. “Hair and makeup await.”  
  
Emma nodded quickly, practically jogging out of the office and out towards the elevator bank a few feet away, wondering how she’d manage to have a conversation like that while smiling for a camera.

He was already on set by the time she’d finished – hair piled up on her head, and braided so tightly she was positive her scalp was going to be permanently ruined, and just enough makeup caked on her face that Emma was a bit nervous it would crack at some point.

Killian’s head snapped up when he heard her moving and the immediate smile on his face when his eyes met hers nearly made Emma forget the last week of nerves and jumbled thoughts and lack of baked goods for her kid.

“Swan,” he mumbled softly, not blinking as she walked towards him.

He didn’t have his IC jacket on and the entire look was entirely unfair – fitted shirt and jeans that must have been tailored for him and his hair artfully mussed. “You’re not all decked out in show paraphernalia,” Emma said, leaning against the counter next to him and trying not to lick her lips and mess up her very precise lipstick.

It matched her dress – bright red at the demand of Ruby who muttered something about _the holiday spirit_ before walking out of the makeup room twenty minutes ago to talk to Regina again.

“Paraphernalia,” he repeated skeptically, glancing at her with a smirk on his face. “You mean the jacket I cook in?”  
  
“Exactly that.”  
  
“Ah, well, not all of us have such well-thought out themes for our shows, love. And I was reliably told that we were supposed to look like _ourselves_ for this one. Something about making us look approachable for the holidays.”  
  
Emma turned, stepping in front of him so she was just a few inches away, and raked her eyes across him, lingering on the few open buttons that were maybe just a bit too low to be entirely family-friendly. “And that’s what this is? This is you?”  
  
“You don’t think so?”  
  
“Didn’t answer my question.”  
“I suppose it is,” Killian answered, shrugging slightly. His hand reached out slowly, like he wasn’t quite sure of the reception he’d get, before finally landing on Emma’s hip and tugging her closer to him. “And what about you, Swan? Is this you?”  
  
Emma shook her head quickly. “Eh, maybe”  
  
“I like it.”  
  
Fuck. She’d bit her lip. Ruby was going to kill her. “How come you haven’t been around?” she asked, words tumbling out of her mouth – and possibly her heart.

Killian lowered his eyebrows quickly, hand tightening just a fraction of an inch on her waist. “What do you mean?”  
  
“I mean you said _sooner_ and you promised brownies and Regina told Ruby you’re stress baking and now they want us to, like, play up some sort of sexual tension for this promo and where have you been?”

He grinned at her, eyes flashing blue and moved his thumb across a seam in her dress. “You miss me, Swan?”  
  
“That’s not what I asked.”  
  
“That’s what it sounded like.”

“Why are you being an ass?” she sighed.

The grin didn’t falter, his eyes didn’t blink – he just ducked his head and kissed her and how was she supposed to talk when he did that?

Killian pulled her flush against him and those very well-fitted pants were making it all but impossible to hide _anything,_  particularly when he moved his hand around her back and held her in front of him like an anchor.

She pressed her hands into his hair – now it was legitimately mussed – hips rolling against his and drawing some sort of noise out of him that Emma was positive she’d think about for the next week if they did that whole not seeing each other thing again.

She hoped they didn’t do that whole not seeing each other thing again.

His fingers were everywhere, dancing up her spine and across the back of her neck, pushing against the top of her dress as they desperately tried to find some skin. And they need to stop doing this on set. But Emma couldn’t come up with a reason to move at the moment, too focused on the way his thumb trailed over her collarbone and how his tongue felt along her lower lip.

Her lipstick was a lost cause.

She did, however, eventually need oxygen and her shoulders were heaving slightly when she pulled away, eyes racing across Killian’s face quickly only to find him grinning at her like he’d won this entire, stupid all-star competition.

“I knew you missed me,” he mumbled, close enough that she could still feel his lips move.

“Was that what that was?” Emma asked, pulling her head back slightly and ignoring Killian’s small groan when she moved. “Trying to prove a point?”  
  
He shook his head slowly, grin growing more pronounced by the moment and tilted his head towards her, trailing his lips along her jaw while his thumb went back to her collarbone and she could get used to this.

Easily.

Far too easily.

God, they were supposed to _talk._

“Absolutely not,” he said, voice catching slightly when Emma’s body jerked against him.

“No?”  
  
He hummed against her ear and she could feel him smiling. “No,” he answered softly. “Because, although it does pain me slightly to hear you didn’t miss me, I, however, have no qualms in saying I missed you. A lot.”

Emma’s lungs hurt as she tried to pull in oxygen and she hadn’t been expecting that. “What?” she mumbled, trying to pull away slightly, but Killian’s hand fell back on her shoulder and held her in place.

“Is that surprising?”  
  
“You’re the one who said sooner.”  
  
“And I’m the one who was doing his best not to push. Despite all instincts to the opposite. And we were overbooked every night. I’m sorry, Swan.”  
Emma’s shoulders dropped slightly and that oxygen she’d been so desperately trying to get a few minutes before rushed out of her body in one fell swoop. And she wasn’t sure _that_ had ever happened – someone willing to wait for her to catch up.

It did something very specific to her heartbeat and breathing level and her entire worldview.

Killian didn’t move, hand still on her shoulders, but the question in his eyes would have been obvious even if Emma wasn’t staring at them already.

Fuck.

Maybe she was the one who was already in love with him.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes wide and that small, encouraging smile on his face again – and Emma should have called him, should have gone to The Jolly, shouldn’t have made him wait. Even if he was willing.

Especially because he was willing.

“I did,” she said softly.

“Did what?”  
  
“Miss you.”

Killian moved before she’d had a chance to realize what exactly she’d said and then his lips were on Emma again and she was kissing him and, fuck it, who needed to define a relationship anyway?

The door to the studio swung open and they both jumped apart quickly, hands dropping to their respective sides with matching smiles on their faces. Emma spun around, ready for a lecture from Ruby about priorities and lipstick, only to find Belle walking towards them, arms crossed and her own smile on her face.

“About time,” she said and Emma felt her mouth drop open. Killian laughed softly behind her, fingers drifting over her spine again, as Belle tossed the heels she’d been carrying onto the floor, slipping into them. “I won’t tell, but, just so you know, like everyone knows. Or they think they know.”  
  
“They think?” Emma repeated.  
  
“I think most of them are still under the impression that we’re firmly entrenched in act one, if you know what I mean, all banter and tension and everything. That’s why they’re focusing the promo around you two.”  
  
“Seriously?”  
  
“Ruby didn’t tell you?” Emma shook her head and Belle shot her a sympathetic look. “They think it’ll drive up viewership.”  
  
“That part, Ruby did tell me.”  
  
“Well, for what it’s worth, I won’t say anything.”  
  
“Thanks,” Killian said, answering for Emma. She couldn’t be positive, but there seemed like there was a note of disappointment in those five letters – like he was upset at the prospect of keeping _whatever_ secret. Or at least pushed into the slightly more discretionary corner.

“Hey, can I talk to you?” Emma said, turning back towards Killian and wrapping her fingers around his wrist quickly. He blinked once – and that didn’t mean anything, of course – but nodded quickly, following her towards the other corner of the studio.

“What’s on your mind, love?”

“Henry has a soccer game today.”  
  
Killian smiled slightly at her, eyes going wide for a beat before he nodded at her. “I know.”  
  
“Do you?”  
  
“You have a very proficient texter for a son, Swan.”

Emma rolled her eyes, but couldn’t keep the smile off her face. “So you’re talking to my kid more than me?”  
  
She appreciated the slightly scandalized look on Killian’s face more than she should. “That’s not what’s going,” he said quickly. “I told you, I just didn’t…”  
  
“I know,” Emma cut in, stepping towards him and wrapping her hand around his left forearm. “And I appreciate it, but what I’m getting at here is that Henry’s got a game later and I’m going and I thought maybe you’d want to come with me.”  
  
It wasn’t a question.

Maybe it should have been a question.

She was incredibly bad at this.

But then Killian smiled and Emma couldn’t think about anything except maybe she was doing ok. “What?” she asked.

“There are brownies in Regina’s office.”  
  
“Really?”

“Really. I didn’t want to assume, but I will admit to hoping a little bit.”  
  
Every single one of her organs were on fire. Or something less morbid. Something more romantic. Something equivalent to feeling important and wanted and maybe someone who had a boyfriend.

Maybe.

“I think you’re allowed a little hope,” she whispered.

“Good to know.”

Emma nodded once, standing on tiptoes to brush her lips over his quickly and trace her fingers over the bottom of his hair and he made _that_ noise again. She could hear Regina calling everyone back to set and Emma couldn’t understand how no one had seen them or how she couldn’t bring herself to care.

* * *

“I had no idea they put this in here.”

“Do you spend a lot of time at Chelsea Piers?” Emma asked, glancing up at him with a slightly teasing smile on her face.

Killian resisted the urge to wrap his fingers up in hers or move his arm around her shoulders – still nervous at _pushing_ , despite Emma’s earlier assurances that he wasn’t. Or she wanted him to. He wasn’t really sure.

A 35-year-old man with his own restaurant and two different primetime television appearances slated that week and he couldn’t bring himself to ask Emma Swan if she was actually his girlfriend. God, it even sounded ridiculous when he didn’t say it out loud.

Maybe Henry would ask.

And then maybe that would be even worse.

“Killian?” Emma continued, nudging her shoulder into his as the whistle blew on the field and the second half of the game began.

He made a noise in the back of his throat, looking back at her and she was still smiling at him. He should have called before.

“I asked if you’d been spending a lot of time at Chelsea Piers?” Emma repeated, laughing softly as she spoke. “Is that why you disappeared for a week?”  
  
“Swan,” he sighed, but she just grinned wider, moving up quickly to kiss his cheek.

“I’m enjoying this teasing thing. Is that why you do it so much?”  
  
“Something like that,” he said, unable to hold in his laugh or stop his arm from moving around her and she didn’t argue with that at all, just pressed herself against his side and rested her head on his shoulder.

And there was that thought again – the same one he’d had when they walked back from Granny’s a week ago. It felt like something.

It felt like a family.

He was getting ahead of himself, practically tripping over his own feet in some race Killian was nervous he was running on his own. She couldn’t be thinking that. She’d run away after one kiss – and come back, his mind reminded him.

She’d come back.

And invited him to Henry’s soccer game.

The kid had nearly hit his head on the crossbar, he jumped so high when Killian walked in with Emma, taking up position on the sidelines and cheering when Henry made a handful of particularly impressive first-half saves.

He did it again – diving to his left and coming up with the ball in his hands and a smile on his face and Killian felt Emma exhale against him, forehead pressed into his shoulder. “He didn’t break any bones did he?” she asked.

“No, love,” Killian answered, arm tightening out of instinct. “That’s his fifth save, you know.”  
  
“You keeping track?”  
  
“Someone should.”  
  
“It’s, like, pee wee soccer, Killian.”  
  
“And I realize we’re supposed to support all the kids and even walking on the field is a victory, but Henry should know that he’s good. So I’ll keep track.”

He felt Emma shake her head against the crook of his neck and she left a kiss where her lips had been before lifting her head back up to look at him. “You didn’t answer my Piers question,” she pointed out.

“True.”  
  
“And?”  
  
Killian took a deep breath, pulling his arm away from her shoulder to trail a finger up her neck. “And I used to come here a lot when I was a kid.”  
  
“I always forget that.”  
  
“That I was a kid?”  
  
“No, that you grew up in New York. You always seem, more, I don’t know, _more._ ”  
  
“More?”  
  
Emma rolled her eyes and sighed dramatically, the sight of it tugging on Killian’s entire body in a way that made him wish they were still in the corner of the studio or even being paraded around in front of camera for their apparent sexual tension. Anywhere but the sidelines of this soccer field, surrounded by families and Henry and memories he didn’t really want to relive.

“Like, I don’t know, worldly or something,” Emma said, holding her hands up in the air.

“I’ve spent most of my life in New York.”  
  
“Take my compliment, Lieutenant.”  
  
And there it was again.

She kept doing it – and he liked it a lot more than he should.  
  
If it had been anyone but Emma, Killian probably would have hated it – would have reacted the same way Will did all those weeks ago, sputtering and shaking with anger. But when Emma did it, when she said it, lips wrapping around the word and the title and all that it meant, Killian couldn’t help but let himself hope for a moment – that maybe he hadn’t lost all of it, retained some of the honor he’d been fighting for since he was thirteen years old and Liam came home in dress whites for the funeral.

Maybe _she_ saw him like that.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said softly, ducking his head and taking another deep breath.

“Why’d you come here a lot when you were a kid?”  
  
“Liam worked here,” Killian answered, rushing over the words. “Before my mom died and before he enlisted. He worked here during the summer, used to let me come with him so my mom could go to work and I didn’t have to stay in the apartment by myself.”  
  
Emma nodded slowly and Killian got the distinct impression she _understood_ , but she didn’t get a chance to say anything before Henry started jumping along his line in net, saving another shot and earning a should-have-been-embarrassing cheer from his mother.

It probably would have been more embarrassing if Killian wasn’t yelling as loudly.

Henry glanced towards the two of them, soccer ball still held tightly in his hands and rolled his eyes hard enough that the entire line of parents along the sideline could probably see him.

“Oh, I think we’ve ventured into yelling-too-loudly territory,” Emma laughed. She moved closer against his side and Killian tried not to focus too long on the _we_ in that sentence or how easily it had been to cheer for a kid that was, decidedly, not his.

“Well, six saves is very impressive, Swan,” he said reasonably.

“Is it? I have absolutely no idea. David’s been trying to help him out, but he played baseball when we were kids and he thinks soccer is boring.”  
  
“He tell Henry that?”  
  
“No, but Henry’s a smart kid. I think he realizes David has no idea what he’s doing.”  
  
Killian nodded thoughtfully, mind racing to ideas of pushing and could-bes and how easy it had been to yell on a sideline full of parents. “I might be able to help,” he said softly, refusing to meet Emma’s wide-eyed gaze.

“Don’t tell me, you were an MLS star too, weren’t you?”  
  
“No, love, not even close,” Killian laughed. “But I have known Robin long enough to understand how the game works and maybe even be able to talk to a twelve-year-old about it.” She stared at him for a moment, lips parted slightly and he could hear her breathing. “If that’s ok, with you, of course,” he added quickly.

Emma shook her head, blinking several times and Killian’s stomach felt like it was full of lead. He’d pushed and it had backfired.

Until it, apparently, hadn’t.

“I think Henry would really like that,” she said softly, eyes meeting his with a small, nervous smile on her face. And, not for the first time, Killian felt him hating Henry’s father just a bit – for what he’d done to the kid and what he’d done to Emma and the mess he’d left in his wake.

One he was hoping to help fix just a bit.

He should have called earlier.

And stop lying to Emma – or, at least, not telling her everything. They’d tread dangerously close to it at Granny’s – another unspoken reason why he hadn’t called – talking about his hand and the accident and what _that_ meant.

He needed to tell her about Milah.

And Gold.

And everything.

And then maybe mention he didn’t mind standing on this sideline with a bunch of parents. At all.

“I’d like it too,” Killian answered.

“Like what?” Henry asked, jogging towards them with the ball still in his hands and a smile on his face.

“What are you doing here?” Emma said sharply, glancing up at a field that was now all but empty.

“The game’s over,” Henry said, narrowing his eyes at the two of them, a knowing smile on his face. “Hey, Killian,” he added, nodding towards him. “Mom didn’t say you were coming.”  
  
“I had brownies to deliver.”  
  
“Really?” Henry’s eyes lit up and Emma was smiling as if she’d never seen anything quite like this and Killian’s mind kept flashing the word _family_ in front of his eyes like some obnoxious, neon sign of pushing the relationship forward.

“Really. I did promise didn’t I?”  
  
“Yeah, I just figured you’d forget or something.”  
  
“I wouldn’t do that,” Killian promised and the look on Henry’s face made him certain that’s exactly what it was. He crouched down, grabbing the box off the turf and handed it to Henry who nearly ripped the cover off, grabbing one and stuffing it in his mouth.

Emma gaped, sighing loudly and still pulled tightly against Killian’s side. “What is this?” she asked. “I know I raised a human.”  
“I’m hungry,” Henry said, crumbs sticking to the edges of his lips.

“Yeah, Swan,” Killian smiled, reaching forward to grab one of the brownies and splitting it in half. He handed the other to Emma, who smiled sarcastically at him. “He’s hungry.”  
  
“Somehow I don’t think it’s fair that you two are already teaming up on me here.”  
  
“Never, love,” he said softly, lips brushing over the top of her head before he remembered that Henry was still standing in front of them.

He didn’t look impressed.

In fact, he looked a little like a twelve-year-old who’d just watched some sort of emotional outburst from the adults in his life and didn’t quite appreciate it.

“You going to tell me what you’d like now?” Henry asked, impatience clouding his voice.

“Soccer,” Killian answered at the same time Emma sighed her son’s name, eyes closing slightly at this display of almost-teenage angst.

“What about it?”  
  
“I’ve heard through some reliable sources that you might be looking to watch soccer or learn soccer or talk about soccer and I think I’d like to do that.”  
  
“For real?”

“For real.”  
  
“Now? Can we watch a game now? Or tomorrow? They’re showing NYCFC game repeats on MSG tomorrow night. Mom, mom can we bring Killian to a game next season?”  
  
“Slow down kid,” Emma said, ignoring the question completely and Henry’s whole body sagged.

“But!”  
  
“Nah, Henry,” Killian cut in, glancing at Emma quickly and hoping he was overstepping some unspoken boundary. “Here I’ll tell you what, Robin and Roland regularly force some soccer on us on Thanksgiving. If you and your mom aren’t busy, you two can come by The Jolly later and you can watch with us. What do you say?”  
  
“Mom?” Henry asked, bobbing up and down on his feet. “Can we?”  
  
Emma’s eyes darted between Killian and her son, a smile tugging on the edge of her mouth and she didn’t move away from him. “I think we can cut out on the Nolan family dessert extravaganza this year. Anyway I bet Ruth’s got a whole set of questions to fire at M’s about the upbringing of her first grandchild and I don’t know that I want to be there for that.”

“Cool,” Henry yelled, grabbing another brownie out of the container. “And Chopped airs that night. Can we watch that too?”  
  
Emma glanced questioningly at Killian. “I don’t see why not,” he shrugged, pulse picking up at watching _that_ with Henry and Robin and Regina and every single staff member of The Jolly a few feet away.

Henry beamed at them. “I’m going to go give these to the rest of the team.”  
  
“Before you eat them all,” Killian muttered and Henry made a face, scowling at him before sprinting towards the other end of the field.

“You don’t have to do that,” Emma said softly, finally taking a step away from him.

“Do what, Swan?”  
  
“Offer up your restaurant and your time like that. I mean, you don’t have to feel obligated to do stuff for Henry.”  
  
“I don’t,” he said honestly. “At all.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Really,” Killian said, another promise on the sidelines of this soccer field. “And it’s not really like I’m going out of my way or anything. Thanksgiving’s always kind of a big thing for us. We’re actually closed and the whole staff brings food. Even Regina cooks.”  
  
“You’ve got some sort of Thanksgiving tradition with your staff?”  
  
Killian shrugged. “Kind of.”  
  
“And you want us there? Me and Henry?”  
  
He resisted the urge to tell her he wanted her _everywhere_ and just nodded instead. “Of course.”

  
Emma stared at him like he was crazy – or maybe like she wanted to be everywhere. “I have to eat at M’s and David’s, but dessert sounds really good.”  
  
“Whatever you want to do, Swan.”  
  
“I want to do that.”  
  
“Then consider it done.”  
  
She smiled at him, the full-effect hitting him with the force of some sort of emotional-laden mack truck and took a step towards him, kissing him quickly but with just enough force that Killian felt her tongue trace along his mouth.

And, suddenly, Killian realized exactly what he’d said.

Us.

Like The Jolly Roger was some sort of family – one he wanted Emma and Henry to be a part of.

More than he’d wanted just about anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff on fluff on fluff with makeouts! Thank you so much guys, as always, for every single click, comment and kudos. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it!
> 
> And @laurnorder continues to be the gift that keeps on giving, reading every single word. She's the absolute best. 
> 
> Come flail with me on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	19. Chapter 19

Mary Margaret looked distraught.

“If you start to cry in this kitchen, I’m not sure I’m going to actually be able to handle it,” Emma said slowly, smiling at the woman in front of her who, absolutely, looked like she was about to start crying in the middle of that kitchen.

“Hormones,” Mary Margaret said, voice dropping into something that nearly resembled a hiss. And Emma felt her eyes widen slightly at the sound, not entirely aware that Mary Margaret could actually get angry.

Apparently she’d been wrong.

“We already ate here,” Emma sighed, going over the now well-worn excuse for what felt like the fifth time that evening. It might have been the sixth. She’d lost track. “And you know Ruth just wants to talk baby stuff with you for the rest of the night.”  
  
“That is exactly why you can’t leave,” Mary Margaret said quickly, slamming the refrigerator door shut with just a bit more force than necessary.

“You don’t need me here as a buffer. Ruth loves you.”  
  
“And she is _obsessed_ with you. And Henry. And she’s going to ask questions that I know you don’t have the answer to.”   
  
Emma rolled her eyes. “We’ll tell her Henry’s not feeling well. He’ll play along.”

“I think you just want to spend time with Killian Jones,” Mary Margaret said pointedly, grinning slyly at Emma over her shoulder while she busied herself with the coffee machine in the corner of the kitchen.

Emma didn’t say anything and Mary Margaret laughed softly and _that_ wasn’t fair. She shouldn’t be able to read her so well. Or get to the crux of the issue so quickly. If it was even an issue to begin with really.

They’d talked constantly over the last few days – and Emma knew he was still texting Henry regularly – and she almost wasn’t entirely freaking out about it. She was pretty happy about it. And she wanted to see him again.

And probably kiss him again.

Several times.

She didn’t tell Mary Margaret that. It didn’t matter. Mary Margaret already knew.

“What are you girls doing in here?”

Emma and Mary Margaret spun towards the other side of the kitchen, meeting the questioning gaze of Ruth Nolan and, suddenly, it felt like a decade and a half earlier and holidays spent in that house in Storybrooke, chock-full of family and smiles and more food than anyone in their right mind should be able to eat.

“Just talking,” Emma said quickly, Mary Margaret nodding emphatically behind her. Ruth didn’t look convinced.

“Of course. That talking have anything to do with why Emma’s planning on leaving Thanksgiving early?”  
  
“What?”   
  
“You have a very chatty son.”   
  
Emma groaned, leaning against the wall of the kitchen and Mary Margaret was laughing openly at her now. “So much for getting out of here easily, huh?” Mary Margaret chuckled, standing up on tiptoes to grab three coffee mugs out of the cabinet in front of her.   
  
“You were mad about this two seconds ago,” Emma shot back. “Now you think it’s hysterical?”   
  
“I was never mad,” she corrected. “More surprised.”   
  
And angry that Emma was going to leave her alone with Ruth and questions about baby plans and nursery color schemes and why Mary Margaret hadn’t registered anywhere yet. But Emma didn’t mention that.

“That makes two of us,” Ruth added, tossing a conspiratorial smile towards Mary Margaret. Emma could hear David and Henry playing video games in the living room and she silently reminded herself to explain to her kid the importance of discretion – and then chastised herself for feeling she had to keep secrets from her family.

“So,” Ruth continued, staring meaningfully at Emma. “Who’s the boy?”  
  
“He’s not a boy,” Emma sighed and Mary Margaret was practically hysterical at this point.

Ruth pressed her lips together tightly, smiling knowingly as she nodded. “Sounds serious.”  
  
“It’s not.”   
  
“You introduced him to Henry.”   
  
And brought him to soccer games and family dinners and let him text her son. And Emma wished everyone would stop using that as some sort of emotional marker on her relationship. Or whatever it was.

There still wasn’t a definition.

Although, she thought, if things went according to the plan she and Henry had come up with, there might be that and a bit more.

“I did,” Emma agreed. Ruth waited for more of an explanation and sighed when it didn’t come.

“You don’t think that makes it seem serious?” she asked.

Emma glanced imploringly at Mary Margaret, widening her eyes slightly in a silent plea to help change the topic of the conversation. Mary Margaret blinked once and Emma was certain she saw her sigh slightly, but she nodded quickly and turned her attention back towards her mother-in-law quickly.

“Did David tell you we were thinking about painting the nursery green?” she asked. “A kind of forest theme?”  
  
“Forest?” Ruth repeated.

“Yeah, you know, to kind of counteract the city?”  
  
“Isn’t blue tradition for boys?”   
  
Mary Margaret nodded. “We’re kind of bucking tradition a bit here.”   
  
“The same way Emma’s bucking tradition with this guy she’s so much more interested in spending time with tonight?”   
  
Emma groaned and Mary Margaret guffawed and Henry practically sprinted into the kitchen, holding his phone in front of him. “Slow down, kid,” Emma said as he skidded to a stop in front of her, socks holding up well against the linoleum floor.

“Did you see this?” he asked, winded from his 100-yard dash around Mary Margaret and David’s apartment.

“Your phone? No.”

“He sent it to both of us.”  Henry thrust the phone in Emma’s face, making her jerk back slightly and, she swore, she heard Ruth cough pointedly.

“My phone’s in my bag,” Emma muttered, holding Henry’s hand steady in front of her. It was an absolutely obscene amount of desserts – plates of cookies and at least half a dozen pies and, if she squinted, something that looked an actual cake in the back corner of the table.

“Are you seeing this?” Henry asked with all the enthusiasm of a twelve-year-old kid who’d just seen a sugar-based heaven.

“I am,” Emma promised.

She could also feel her stomach flip slightly at the sight, the _family_ he had at this restaurant and the way he wanted to include her family in it too. It wasn’t serious. It wasn’t defined. At least not yet.

“Can we go? Now? If we don’t go soon, Rol’s going to eat all those cookies and there won’t be any left.”  
  
Emma couldn’t stop herself from smiling, Henry’s voice picking up the way it did when he was excited about something. David’s footsteps sounded a few feet away – a telltale sign he didn’t appreciate being abandoned in the living room  – and Emma glanced up when he pulled the phone out of her hand, looking down at it with something that almost seemed like amusement.

“That’s a lot of food,” he muttered.

“Well, he is a chef,” Emma answered patiently.

“He’s a chef?” Ruth asked sharply, making four head snap towards her. “Why are you all keeping the details of this to yourselves? It’s a holiday. An important holiday to this family and you’re all keeping secrets.”  
  
Emma scuffed her socked-feet against the kitchen floor, staring at the pattern and silently chastising herself for all of this. “It’s not really a secret,” she mumbled and Ruth scoffed – and she _really_ might have time traveled to being fifteen and standing in that kitchen in Storybrooke.

“What’s his name?” Ruth continued. “He work at the network?”  
  
“He’s an Iron Chef,” David answered for her, ignoring the glare Emma shot his way. “Killian Jones.”   
  
Ruth almost dropped the coffee mug Mary Margaret handed her. “What?” she asked loudly and the four heads that were staring at her now had matching wide-eyed expressions on their respective faces. “Emma, how could you?”   
  
Emma glared at David again, narrowing her eyes in a way that was supposed to be threatening, but, apparently only looked amusing to her brother. “What do you mean?”   
  
“I can’t believe you’re dating Killian Jones and didn’t tell me,” Ruth said, voice doing the same excited thing Henry’s did and absolutely ignoring Emma’s quiet _we’re not actually dating_ objection. “He is my absolute favorite Iron Chef.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“My favorite. I make sure I watch all of his episodes. You know he’s going to compete tonight on some Thanksgiving-themed show. It’s on before your Chopped.”   
  
Emma nodded slowly, mouth hanging open in stunned silence and David looked close to the edge of hysterics. “I know,” she mumbled. “They filmed on Tuesday.”   
  
“You know his filming schedule?” David asked, shaking against her with silent laughter. Emma was going to kill him.

“We talk,” she said evasively.

Ruth was still going a mile-a-minute and if Emma wasn’t so frustrated with David she would have been impressed with the woman’s apparent fandom for Killian Jones. Mostly she just wanted to get out of that very crowded kitchen, take her kid a few blocks back downtown and eat an absurd amount of undoubtedly delicious desserts.

Instead, Ruth was still asking questions and David was looking smug and Mary Margaret clearly didn’t know if she should pour Emma a cup of coffee.

And that was when she lost her mind.

“Alright,” Emma said sharply, taking a step into the middle of the kitchen and crossing her arms forcefully in front of her. “Enough.”  
  
“Mom,” Henry said warily, voice dragging out the syllable until the word sounded like every single letter of the alphabet. Emma shook her head and Henry’s mouth snapped shut quickly.

“Enough,” she repeated. “You guys are upset about secrets and dessert plans and a, frankly questionable, fandom that I had no idea about, fine. We’ll all go then.”  
  
The entire kitchen was silent.

Emma nodded once, feeling like an authority and wondering if she’d actually gone crazy. She’d absolutely gone crazy.

“What?”

She wasn’t sure who asked, but it didn’t matter. She’d made up her mind. They’d all go and she’d figure out a way to follow the plan and, somehow, give her family a taste of their own interfering-medicine.  

“Yup,” Emma said. “That’s it. We’re all going.”  
  
“But we’ve got pie here,” David argued.   
  
“And Killian’s got half a dozen and cookies and an entire bar full of alcohol. You want to go to The Jolly, Ruth? You can meet Killian in person.”   
  
Ruth stared wide-eyed at Emma, like she’d never quite seen her do anything quite like this before – and that was probably true. The compartments of Emma’s previously well-organized life had, seemingly, disappeared entirely and, quite suddenly, everything was all mixed together, piled on top of each other like that table full of desserts thirteen blocks away.

“I’d like that,” she said after a few more moments of wide-eyed silence. “He is my favorite, after all.”  
  
Emma nodded once, clapping her hand on Henry’s shoulder as she walked wordlessly towards the front door, grabbing her jacket off the coat rack as she went. Mary Margaret flipped off the coffee maker, a smile tugging on her face that, likely, had nothing to do with hormones and David simply looked entertained by Emma’s declaration.

The five of them filed out of the cab twenty minutes later, a mess of arms and feet as they made their way towards the front door of The Jolly Roger and, suddenly, Emma was nervous.

It was stupid.

She’d told herself that twenty times on the cab ride downtown. Killian wouldn’t mind. He was _nice_ and understanding and there were so many desserts in that picture he’d sent Emma and Henry, that a few more mouths wouldn’t even put a dent in the spread.

But he’d also only invited them and Emma wanted it to be _them_ and she had a plan to stick to.

Henry sprinted towards the door – a line not forming straight out of it for the first time in moths – swinging it open and dashing inside with only a cry about _root beer floats_ and Emma was grinning like a fool at the sight.

She took a deep breath, feeling David and Ruth on either side of her. “Come on,” Emma said softly. “Time to go introduce Ruth to her celebrity crush.”  
  
“And yours too,” David muttered, holding the door open for them and moving his eyebrows up and down quickly. She ignored that.

As expected, Henry was already on the far side of the bar, feet dangling over one of the seats and Will had a glass in one hand and an ice cream scooper in the other. “Emma,” he yelled as soon as the door slammed shut behind her. “You know your kid sprinted in here and all but demanded a float and now everyone is making drink requests.”  
  
“Isn’t that your job?”   
  
“Ah, but we’re not actually open today, are we?”   
  
“Wait,” Mary Margaret said, tugging on Emma’s sleeve. “They’re not actually open?”   
  
“It’s like a Thanksgiving thing,” Emma shrugged. Mary Margaret didn’t even try to hide her wide grin or her slightly teary gaze. “Not a word.”

Mary Margaret mimed zipping her lips and Emma let out a shaky laugh, turning quickly when she heard her name yelled from the other side of the restaurant.

She absolutely shouldn’t have brought her family.

And probably shouldn’t have brought Henry.

Because he looked unfairly good.

He was wearing a _cardigan_ and Emma was positive no one had ever made a cardigan that fit as well as the one Killian Jones was apparently wearing at that moment. “Swan,” he said, pausing quickly to put his hand on Henry’s shoulder and throw a smile her son’s direction. “I didn’t think you’d be here this early.”   
  
“Is that a bad thing?”   
  
“Of course not,” he said quickly, the words rolling off his tongue easily as he moved across the restaurant towards her. He didn’t even notice Ruth or Mary Margaret or David until he was only a few feet away from her, stopping suddenly and rocking slightly on his heels like he was keeping himself from kissing her.

Fuck.

“There was kind of a change of plans,” Emma muttered, ducking her eyes. Of course, that just provided an excellent view of his feet when he moved, taking a few step towards her until his fingers brushed over hers and her head snapped up and _God_ his eyes were blue.

And staring straight at her.

“It’s ok, love,” Killian said softly, fingers not moving from hers and this entire restaurant could hear her heart thudding in her chest, Emma was certain. “Nice to see you again, David, Mary Margaret.”  
  
Her brother and sister-in-law nodded, muttering appropriate _you too_ -s and complimenting him on the absolutely absurd amount of desserts behind him. Ruth coughed and Emma resisted the urge to roll her eyes, meeting Killian’s entertained gaze.

“Ruth,” she said, glancing to her left. “This is Killian Jones. Killian, this is Ruth. My mom for all intents and purposes.”  
  
Killian’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second, glancing to Emma quickly, before he settled into _Iron Chef mode,_  flashing a smile at Ruth and thrusting his hand out into the open space between them. “A pleasure,” he said and it actually sounded like he meant it, like he wasn’t upset Emma had brought her entire family to _his_ Thanksgiving party.

Ruth giggled and David stared at his mother like she’d been abducted by aliens and replaced with some sort of robot model of the woman who raised him. Emma didn’t blame him. She’d never heard Ruth giggle in her entire life.

“She’s apparently your biggest fan,” Emma said, smiling back at Killian. “Watches all your IC appearances and everything.”  
  
“That so?” Emma nodded and Killian was smirking and she really needed a drink. “Well,” he said, turning his attention back on Ruth, hand still wrapped up in hers. “Then this is even more important, isn’t it? Can I get you something to drink, Ruth?”   
  
She nodded quickly, still not saying a word and followed Killian back towards Henry and the bar. He grinned at Emma over his shoulder, making her push her feet into the floor so she wouldn’t do something stupid like melt into it. She barely had a second to consider the pack of butterflies or _whatever_ that seemed to have erupted in her, reportedly, mature adult stomach before Emma felt a very solid something collide against her leg, glancing down to find Roland Locksley already talking a mile a minute against her jeans.

She bent down before she even registered that David and Mary Margaret were openly staring at her, hoisting Roland up slightly until he was standing up straight and at eye level. “You haven’t been here in awhile,” he accused with all the tact of a recently-turned-seven-year-old. “You missed my birthday.”  
  
“I know,” Emma sighed, pushing aside the flash of guilt she felt at his words. “But I bet it was a pretty awesome party.”   
  
“It was! It was here at The Jolly and Uncle Killian made cheeseburgers and all my friends from school came and Uncle Will made us milkshakes and dad and Gina got me a whole bunch of presents and…” He huffed loudly, suddenly out of air and Emma heard two distinct laughs behind her.

“Breathe, Rol,” she said, putting her hand on the boy’s shoulder. “How was your dinner? Did you have a ton of turkey?”  
  
He shook his head pointedly and the serious look on his face made Emma laugh. “I don’t like turkey,” he said with the kind of conviction Emma wasn’t positive she’d ever had in her voice. “But Gina makes really good lasagna and she brought it today and that’s what I had instead.”   
  
“Thanksgiving lasagna?”   
  
Roland nodded, eyes moving up over Emma’s head to stare questioningly at David and Mary Margaret. “Who are they?” he asked – straight to the point.

Mary Margaret crouched down to Roland’s level – ignoring David’s protests with a quick wave of her hand – and grinned at the child in front of her. “Hi,” she said with all the practiced ease of someone who spent the better part of their day with third graders. “I’m Mary Margaret. I’m Emma’s sister. What’s your name?”  
  
“Roland York Locksley,” he said and Emma glanced towards Mary Margaret with a smile on her face. “I’m seven.”   
  
Mary Margaret widened her eyes, an impressed look flashing across her eyes and nodded like it was the most important news she’d received all day. “So that means you’re in second grade then?” Roland nodded.

Emma heard Regina’s heels before she saw them and when she glanced up, she was positive she’d find the frustrated producer she’d gotten used to over the last few months at the network. She didn’t. The sensible pant suit was gone – replaced by an IC-branded t-shirt and jeans and while she was still wearing heels, the smile on her face was something Emma hadn’t encountered before.

“Rol,” she said, running her hands across his hair. “You can’t just run across the restaurant like that. At least let Emma and her friends walk in before you attack them with questions.”  
  
“It’s alright,” Emma said quickly, standing back up to her full height and reaching a hand out to help Mary Margaret stand back up. David was next to her half a second later, arm wrapped protectively around her shoulder like she’s somehow managed to _overexert_ herself by moving slightly. “We haven’t seen each other in awhile.”   
  
Regina stared at her for a moment and Emma got the distinct impression she was being silently critiqued. Or something. She’d just lost her mind.

“This is Emma’s sister,” Roland said quickly, turning to tap his hand meaningfully on Regina’s thigh.

“That so?”

“Sister-in-law technically,” Mary Margaret said, extending her hand with that seemingly permanent smile still etched on her face as she nodded towards David. “He’s the brother.”  
  
“David Nolan,” he said and Emma thought _maybe_ this was going alright. But then Killian and Ruth came back, joined by Robin who quickly scooped up his son, slinging him over his shoulder and working a wave of giggles out of him in the process.

“Detective David Nolan,” Ruth corrected quickly. “And soon to be Sergeant David Nolan.”  
  
“You don’t know that for sure,” he mumbled. Mary Margaret noticeably stiffened and Regina’s eyes got wide – putting together two and two with Emma’s charity choice so quickly that she was almost impressed if she wasn’t also slightly mortified at _yet_ another broken compartment of her life.

“Of course I do. You said the exam went well.”

Killian’s hand was on Emma’s back before she even realized he’d moved, fingers brushing across the bottom of her shirt and she didn’t even try and stop herself from leaning into the feel of him there.

“Of course it went well,” Mary Margaret said sharply – the second time that evening she’d bordered dangerously close to a very un-Mary Margaret tone.

And Emma was positive she was right – certain David had done well as soon as he’d walked in the door of his and Mary Margaret’s apartment the week before to find them anxiously awaiting a detailed play-by-play of the multi-hour event.

But that was all anyone had said about it – all three of them pointedly ignoring the probable promotion and everything that went with that. For a family full of so many vaguely successful adults, the Swan-Nolan clan could be a bunch of cowards when they wanted to be.

“Well, we won’t know for a couple of months,” David said, hand ghosting over the side of Mary Margaret’s stomach. They’d know about the same time Leo Henry Nolan – Emma had taken to calling him by his full name now that he had a name and one that continued to give her goosebumps whenever she thought about it – arrived in the world.

There was some kind of poetic irony to that.

God, she needed a drink.

“You’re a police officer, David?” Regina said, forcing Emma back into reality and just how close Killian Jones was standing next to her while surrounded by her family. He nodded and Regina an understanding noise in the back of her throat. “Your charity choice makes a bit more sense now,” she added, glancing at Emma.

Killian’s hand trailed up her spine, resting on the curve of her neck as his thumb rubbed circles across the collar of her shirt. “Gina,” he said softly, earning a questioning glance from his producer. Emma felt him move slightly, shaking his head and Regina didn’t ask any more questions. “C’mon Swan,” Killian continued. “Let me get you a drink.”  
  
“Yeah, ok,” she mumbled, letting him direct her through the tables in front of them, but he didn’t move them towards the bar and Henry and, maybe, alcoholic root beer floats. He moved them towards the kitchen, down that hallway that, quite suddenly, made it seem like they were the only two people in the entire restaurant.

“I’m sorry about that,” Killian said quickly, stopping to turn on Emma as soon as they were in the hallway.

“About what?”  
  
“Regina and the questions about your charity. She shouldn’t have asked, she’s just curious by default especially when it comes to stuff about the network. She thinks it’s some sort of right or something, honestly she’s constantly asking me…”   
  
Emma didn’t give him a chance to finish – pushing up on tiptoes and kissing him before he even got another word out. He didn’t even seem surprised – and _that_ seemed like a step in some sort of relationship-defining direction – just met her movement for movement, right hand falling into her hair and left hand resting on her waist.

She rolled her hips against Killian’s and both of them groaned – a totally inappropriate noise considering they weren’t actually  alone in this restaurant and were only a few feet away from a dozen family members and restaurant staff.

Emma didn’t care.

She wanted him to make that noise again.

Killian’s hand moved up her side and Emma pushed her hand underneath his t-shirt without ceremony, fingers finding skin and muscle and _God_ when did he even find time to work out? “Swan,” he mumbled against her lips. She hummed in the back of her throat, refusing to move and, for a moment, Killian started kissing her again and that felt like a victory.

He pulled away slightly, still close enough that his nose brushed up against hers as his thumb trailed across the bottom of her jaw. “Emma,” Killian said softly and she jerked her head back, eyes flashing up towards his, only to be meet with a look that made her breath catch in her throat.

Which, of course, had been why she’d kissed him silent in the first place anyway.

Because he was trying to protect her or explain or rationalize whatever Regina was doing and _she_ should be the one apologizing, bringing her family several blocks downtown to some sort of tradition that wasn’t theirs.

And he was so goddamn nice.

She hadn’t been ready for it.

“Yeah?” she asked, fingers still moving under Killian’s shirt. He bit the bottom of his lip tightly and that was _almost_ better than the noise.

“We’re in the middle of the hallway, love.”  
  
“So move to the kitchen.” Killian laughed softly, leaning forward to rest his forehead on Emma’s. “I’m sorry,” she said, palm flattening just above his hip.

“For attacking me in the hallway? You don’t have to apologize for that.”  
  
She smacked her hand softly against his chest and he dropped his own away from her jaw, wrapping his fingers around Emma’s and pulling them up to his lips, brushing kisses across her knuckles in a way that made her reconsider attacking him all over again.

“That’s not what I meant.”  
  
“What did you mean then?”   
  
“I meant that I’m sorry for bringing my entire family to your restaurant and my apparently fan-girling mother who never once mentioned you in any conversation we’ve ever had until she thought you were my boyfriend and for not punching David in the face as soon as we walked in because he’s been a consistent asshole to you. But that last part was more a thank you, I guess. I don’t know, I lost track of my point.”   
  
She didn’t, however, miss the way his eyes lit up when she used the word boyfriend.

Later.

She’d deal with that later. If everything went according to plan.

“I think I picked up on the highlights of it,” Killian said, dropping Emma’s hand back down to her side and twisting up his fingers in hers quickly. “And none of those things are things that require you to be sorry or apologize to me.”  
  
“But…”   
  
“No, buts, Swan. It’s all ok. Your mother and I had a fantastic conversation about tonight’s IC episode. I gave her all the results.”   
  
“You gave her spoilers?”   
  
“She wanted to know.”   
  
“Why? Didn’t you win?”   
  
“Of course I did,” he grinned at her, that stupid, confident smile probably part of the reason Emma was willing to risk a non-compartmentalized life in the first place. “But she wanted details and I could provide that.”   
  
Emma smiled back up at him, shaking her head slowly when an idea, suddenly, dawned on her. “Why are we back here?” she asked. “I thought you were going to ply me with alcohol or something.”   
  
“It doesn’t appear that I need to ply you with anything, love. Not when you’re staging one-woman attacks in my hallway.”   
  
“Killian,” Emma sighed and he moved his eyebrows quickly, clearly enjoying the way the conversation was going. She felt like her head was spinning. And she kind of liked it.

“Maybe I just wanted to get you by yourself for a few moments.”  
  
“Then you set yourself up for attack!”   
  
“Ah, so then you admit to attacking.”   
  
Emma groaned loudly, sighing with all the dramatics she could muster as she rolled her eyes. Killian just laughed at her. And then he kissed her – slowly, lips moving over hers like he was trying to memorize the way she felt against him.

“Killian!”

The call came from around the corner of the hallway – like they didn’t want to walk in on exactly what was happening just a few feet away – and the amusement was obvious in Ariel’s voice. “Rol and Henry are both asking when we’re finally going to let them eat dessert, so unless you want some sort of kid-style battle over the chocolate chip cookies, then you and Emma better get back out here.”

Emma’s shoulders shook from laughing and, this time, Killian groaned at the interruption. “See,” he said, tone making her stop laughing immediately as it settled into every single nerve ending in her entire body. “Good thing we mutually attacked each other.”  
  
“Is that what we’re calling it now?”   
  
“I don’t see why not, seems to be exactly what happened.” And he wasn’t wrong. “C’mon, love,” he said, twisting away from the wall until his arm was draped over her shoulder and Emma was walking back down the hallway before she realized her feet had started moving. “Can’t have kids fighting over chocolate chip cookies.” 

* * *

Henry was, by far, the most curious twelve-year-old she’d ever met.

And Killian was, by far, the most patient man she’d ever met.

He answered every one of Henry’s questions, talking about soccer with only a few glances towards an obviously entertained Robin and an occasional interruption from Roland who just _wanted to talk about Manchester United_.

“It’s his favorite team,” Robin explained to Emma, sinking into one of the seats at the bar next to her, drink in his hand and a smile on his face.

“We’re a strictly MLS household,” Emma answered. “Or so I have been reliably informed. David took Henry to an NYCFC game the first season they played in the Bronx and it’s been all blue and white and third line ever since.”  
  
“I wouldn’t have pegged you for a sports fan.”   
  
“I’m not, but Henry spends a lot of time with my brother and sister-in-law and David’s always been big on them.”   
  
“And now he’s got Killian to talk soccer with too.”   
  
Emma narrowed her eyes, wary at the direction the conversation seemed to be taking. Although, she argued with herself, David had spent his first few interactions with Killian shooting daggers his direction – Emma could deal with the _protective friend_ speech.

“I suppose so,” Emma said, doing her best to keep her tone light. The idea that Henry had Killian and, maybe, _she_ had Killian was doing something very specific to her need for another drink.

“Trust me,” Robin promised. “He does. You both do.”  
  
“Yeah?”   
  
Robin turned to look at her, tilting the glass in his hand until it was balancing on its edge and, somewhere, that seemed like a metaphor. Emma wasn’t sure what it meant. He rested the thing back down flat and looked at Emma thoughtfully for a moment before nodding – the same look Roland had leveled her with a few hours before.

“Absolutely,” he said and the sincerity in his voice left little room for doubt. Emma, however, was always good at doing the unexpected.

“You sound awfully sure,” she muttered, taking a sip the little drink she still had in her glass. Robin just laughed softly.

“Aren’t you?” Emma shrugged noncommittally, glancing over the other side of the restaurant where Killian and David were sitting, respective feet resting on the edge of a booth while Roland and Henry peppered each of them with questions, eyes all but glued on the screen they’d set up on the wall.

It was an impressive set-up – a pull-down screen and a connected laptop and more wires than Emma could count if she tried. And it, somehow, ended with her son and brother watching soccer on Thanksgiving – a plate of cookies in hand – while Killian and Roland explained the English Premier League.

Mary Margaret and Ruth, meanwhile, were sitting in their own booth, staring at Regina’s apparent wedding scrapbook of ideas, something she referred to as _Pinterest, but more organized._  Ariel kept mentioning what she’d done on her own wedding day and Emma was almost concerned for the hostess’ safety, what with the glare Regina kept flashing her direction.

“Is this an actual live game?” she asked, ignoring Robin’s question entirely.

He laughed again and shook his head. “Nah, it’s nighttime.”  
  
“So?”   
  
“You really don’t know anything about sports do you?” Emma made a face as Robin chuckled again, standing up to walk behind the bar and grab a bottle of whiskey from one of the lower shelves, filling half his glass before tilting the bottle questioningly towards Emma.

She put her palm over the top of her glass. “I’m on the rum track tonight, apparently,” Emma said. “And, no, as previously discussed I don’t know anything about sports.”  
  
“Well, EPL is in England, as the name would suggest,” Robin started, grinning when Emma rolled her eyes at him. “So, it’s played in the afternoon there, kind of like your football. But that pesky time difference means it’s morning here in the states. The games they’re watching is one of Roland’s favorites, the 2013 title.”   
  
“And he remembers that game?”   
  
“Ah, no,” Robin sighed, smile still intact on his face. “He was three, but he’s watched it enough times that I’m fairly certain he’s all but convinced himself he can remember it.”  
  
“The best way to parent,” Will said sarcastically, coming up to stand next to Robin with a drink his hand as well. “And get out from back behind my bar.”   
  
“Last time I checked it wasn’t your bar,” Robin shot back, but moved anyway, coming back to sit next to Emma. “Anyway,” he continued, turning back towards her and Emma wondered just how much whiskey he’d actually had that night. “Either way, you’ve got Killian and Henry’s got Killian and you can both actually see how football is _supposed_ to work.”   
  
“He’s not wrong, you know,” Will chipped in. Emma tapped her now empty glass pointedly, nodding towards it. Will smiled at her, grabbing the rum off the back shelf and pouring it into the tumbler. “And that’s not a bad thing either.”   
  
“You’re being nice to me now?” Emma asked, laughing so she wouldn’t focus too much on the way her stomach flipped at the words. “And here I thought you just resented having to make my kid root beer floats.”   
  
Will’s face dropped quickly and he pursed his lips at her for a moment, leaning back against the wall behind the bar. “That’s not true,” he said softly.

“No?”  
  
He shook his head. “No,” he repeated. “And I don’t resent Henry either. At the risk of sounding like an over-emotional asshole, you’ve made things pretty good here, especially now that you and Killian are talking again.”   
  
“What?” Emma asked sharply, feeling a bit like a broken record that only knew how to ask questions. “What do you mean?”   
  
“I mean that while you two were working out your _whatever,_  Cap wandered around this restaurant like some sad, little lost puppy that was prone to snapping at everyone. Even Ari and he never yells at Ari.”  
  
“Why?”

It was another question and Will just laughed at her. “You’ve got to understand,” Robin explained slowly, “when Killian wants something, he gets very focused.”  
  
“And?”   
  
“And he wanted _this._  Hence the proclamations of you and Henry having him.”  
  
“And that hasn’t happened in awhile,” Will added. Emma sat up straight, pressing her back against the chair and pushing her forearms into her stomach as she glanced quickly between Robin and the bartender.

“Scarlet,” Robin hissed sharply and Will just shrugged. “Enough.”  
  
“Am I missing something?” Emma asked.

“You’re all about the questions today aren’t you?”  
  
“It’s the alcohol. Makes me wordy.”   
  
“Well, it’s not our job to tell you,” Robin said, sounding a bit like he was disciplining Roland and not talking to celebrity chef Emma Swan. “He’ll tell you when he’s ready and you’ll tell _him_ everything when you’re ready.”   
  
Emma’s whole body felt like it was filled with cement and she slumped against the chair she’d been sitting up so straightly in just a few moments before, dragging her glass along the top of the bar before downing the rest of the rum in one quick gulp.

“Impressive,” Will muttered.

“Thanks.”  
  
“Emma, it’s almost nine o’clock!”

She glanced over her shoulder at a smiling and slightly tipsy Ruth, walking towards her with two slices of pie in her hand, pushing one towards Emma without so much as asking her if she wanted any. She did.

“So?”

“So, it’s Chopped time. Come on, you can’t tell me we aren’t able to watch some sort of live stream of the show on whatever contraption they’ve got set up over there?”  
  
“How do you know what live streaming is?”   
  
“You know we’ve had internet in Storybrooke for years now.”

Emma rolled her eyes and Ruth didn’t move an inch. “I have no idea what the wires over there mean, but I would imagine Killian can figure it out if you _really_ want to watch.”   
  
“Of course I really want to watch. We took a poll at the booth over there and it was an overwhelming majority.”   
  
“Well, who am I to object to the majority?”   
  
“Exactly.”

“Let’s go get Killian to fix it, but if Henry wants to keep watching this soccer game, we’ll wait on the live stream, ok?”  
  
“Football,” Robin and Will corrected at the same time.

“Of course.”

All it took was the word Chopped and both Henry and Roland were more than willing to turn off the soccer-whatever and watch Emma and Killian on the larger-than-normal screen in front of them, both talking quickly about wins and charities and food choices.

Emma didn’t move from her spot at the bar – not entirely enthused about watching herself _lose_ on a larger-than-normal screen – and it only took a few moments for Killian’s gaze to land on her, encouraging smile tugging on his mouth as he walked back towards her.

He didn’t say anything when he sat down next to her, foot resting on the bottom of her chair when he spun to look at her. “I don’t really want to watch,” Emma mumbled. Killian nodded understandingly, leaning to his right to trail his fingers over the back of her neck.

“Thank you,” Emma whispered as the introductions began, cheers erupting from the small crowd when she and Killian walked onto the set.

“For?”  
  
“This. For smiling and putting on a good show and making all this food and showing Henry EPL.”   
  
“You talked to Robin,” he said, laughing softly under his breath. His eyes hadn’t moved away from Emma.

“And Will.”  
  
Killian let out a low whistle, eyes widening with something that almost looked like nerves. “I can’t imagine about what.”   
  
“No, no, it was good,” Emma promised.   
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“Yeah,” she said, reaching out to rest her hand on his knee. He stared at it for a moment, teeth tugging lightly on his lip before lifting his hand to tug on Emma’s fingers quickly, thumb brushing across the back of her palm. “That’s what the _thank you_ was for.”   
  
“I wanted to.”   
  
And there it was again.

It wasn’t the first time Killian had told her that, but Robin’s words practically rang in Emma’s ears and she squeezed his hand lightly, earning a questioning look for her momentary emotional outburst in the back of The Jolly.

“Good,” she said. She didn’t mention how much she wanted too.

Neither one of them said anything else, just sat with entwined hands and an overabundance of thoughts while Chopped played in the background and the peanut gallery peppered in comments and critiques.

He didn’t let go of her hand until it was over, shaking his head at the force post-competition celebration shot he’d been forced to endure. Emma actually watched that part – she’d been doing talking heads while they filmed _that_ – and couldn’t help but smile at the obvious way Killian held shoulders during the shot, bordering close to awkward in front of the camera for, what she was certain, was the first time in his cooking career.

“What are you smiling at Swan?” Killian asked, pushing out of the chair and rounding on her immediately, nudging against her crossed knees.

“Oh, you look thrilled,” Emma laughed. “A real winner up there on the screen.”  
  
“I did win.”   
  
“You’d never know with the way you’re standing like you’ve got a stick pushed up the back of your very fancy IC jacket.”   
  
Killian blinked twice and Emma felt him take a deep breath, leaning forward slightly so he was hovering just a few inches away from her. “I’m not much for being paraded around in front of cameras, love.”   
  
“That’s not the Iron Chef I know.”   
  
“I’m not always an Iron Chef.”   
  
Emma leaned forward – fully intent on kissing him in the middle of the restaurant, family not even behind a hallway buffer this time – but she could hear Henry’s feet sprinting towards them and the sounds of _mom mom mom_ as he dodged in between tables and chairs.

“You did really good Killian,” he said as soon as he slammed into the side of the bar, leaning over the edge dramatically and, apparently, forgetting about what he was so intent on telling Emma just a few minutes before.   
  
“Thanks,” Killian said, brushing his hand over Henry’s hair and every single one of Emma’s internal organs clenched at the sight. “Although I don’t think that’s why you came over here so quickly.”   
  
“Nah.”   
  
“Then go ahead and talk.”   
  
Henry nodded seriously and Emma realized what was about to happen like she’d been doused in ice water. “Did you ask?”

“Ask what?”  
  
“No, no,” Henry corrected quickly. “I was talking to my mom. Mom, did you ask yet? There was a plan.”   
  
Killian glanced at her – amusement flashing in his eyes – and Emma tried to actually get some oxygen to those same clenching vital organs or however biology worked. “I didn’t,” Emma sighed, widening her eyes at her kid in silent warning.

His shoulders slumped and he made a face he should probably have patented at this point. “But the plan!”  
  
“Yeah, I know about the plan kid, but I can’t do that with you standing over my shoulder can I?”

“I guess.”  
  
“Henry.”   
  
“Ok, ok, just, uh, go talk or something. Go back to the hallway.”   
  
“Henry!”   
  
“Twelve, mom and still not blind.”   
  
Emma slumped against the chair, sliding down until her feet landed flat on the floor. “What is he talking about, Swan?” Killian asked, hand back on her shoulder and thumb doing that torturously comforting thing against her skin.

“You want to take a walk?”  
  
“Excuse me?”   
  
“A walk.”   
  
“I think you should take the walk,” Henry added and Emma, somehow, widened her eyes even more. “Sorry, sorry, I’m not standing here anymore.”

“Swan?”

“Come on,” she said, pushing off the chair and grabbing Killian’s hand as she tugged him towards the door and out onto the sidewalk, not even stopping to grab coats.

“You alright, love? It’s freezing, why are we out here?”  
  
Emma sighed, bobbing up and down on her feet slightly to keep warm – and maybe distract herself from the nerves she could feel in every single inch of her body. God, his eyes were blue. That made this more difficult.

“As Henry pointed out not-so-subtly, we had a plan,” she said quickly, leaning back against the side of The Jolly Roger.  

“One that included me?”

“It was mostly _about_ you, if we’re being honest.”   
  
“And are we? Being honest?”

“I think we’re trying to be.” Killian took a step toward her, hand tightening around Emma’s’ wrist as he nodded slowly. Emma took a deep breath, closing her eyes slightly. “The plan is to ask you out. You know, officially.”

His hand fell off her wrist.

“What?” Killian said, voice snapping through Emma’s mind like some sort of whip that made her eyes flash open quickly. “Didn’t we do that already?”  
  
“Not that I’m aware of.”   
  
“I made drinks. We talked about the Navy. I was worried it was awful.”

Emma smiled, finally meeting his gaze and it was almost enough to make her close her eyes again – all nervous and meaningful and burning its way right into her memory. “Are we calling that a date?” she asked, tugging lightly on the tiny hairs just above the top of his neck, until Killian dipped his head and brushed his lips against hers.

“I’ve been calling it that for months. At least in my head.”  
  
“Maybe we should be vocal about these types of things.”   
  
“Vocal?” he repeated, sarcastic smile doing something to her pulse. “Is that a request to be more vocal, Swan?”   
  
Emma pulled harder on his hair and _that_ was about as vocal as he got before she pressed up against him, tugging on his lip with the edge of her teeth and rocking her hips up against him. Killian’s hand pushed its way back underneath her shirt, fingers moving up her side to dangerously high levels, brushing against skin and Emma couldn’t think, let alone remind him that they were still on the sidewalk.

She couldn’t breathe and it took a few moments before the need for air became too much to ignore anymore, pulling her mouth away from his and earning herself a very vocal groan for her efforts.

“I am saying,” Emma said slowly, trying to keep her eyes focused on something that wouldn’t make her want to kiss him again, “that maybe we should be a little better about letting each other know about labels for certain things.”  
  
Like what exactly _this_ was.

She didn’t say anything about that.

Killian grinned at her, hand still pressed up against her side. “That doesn’t seem too difficult, Swan.”  
  
“So, then, you going to say anything?”   
  
“About?”   
  
“Killian!”

He laughed, head tossed back slightly before leaning forward to kiss along her jaw lightly. “Of course,” he said, voice soft and meaningful and they should really come up with some kind of label for this. “On one condition.”  
  
“And that is?”   
  
“You let me plan it.”   
  
“I’m perfectly capable of planning a date.”   
  
“Of course you are, love. But since we weren’t certain what to call the last one, at least give me the chance to redeem myself a bit.”   
  
“You literally fed my entire family a Thanksgiving dessert feast today, I don’t think there’s anything to redeem.”   
  
“Ah, but that was just a happy coincidence.”   
  
“And dealt with Ruth.”   
  
“She was just enthusiastic. You know how many IC episodes she’s seen?”

“Let me guess, all of yours?”

He waggled his eyebrows at her. “Says she keeps a few recorded for when there’s nothing else on TV.”  
  
“Oh my God,” Emma sighed, unable to shake the smile off her face.

“And none of those things make me any less insistent that I plan our date.”  
  
Emma’s stomach flipped and she pulled her lip back behind her teeth, fighting the urge to brush her hair off her shoulders and broadcast what _that_ meant to her. “You said ‘our.’”

“It is. Were you planning on bringing someone else?”  
  
“I don’t think so. Just us.”   
  
“See, then ‘our’ is an appropriate pronoun. Saturday?”   
  
“Yeah,” Emma said, not even worried at our breathless her voice sounded. He said _our_ – like they were some sort of unit. And that might have been the definition she was waiting for. “That sounds nice.”   
  
“I’m willing to aim a bit higher than nice, love,” Killian said, hand squeezing softly. “Eight o’clock?”   
  
“Henry can stay with David and M’s. Ruth wanted to go uptown at some point anyway.”   
  
“I like this plan, Swan.”   
  
“Me too.”

Killian nodded once, kissing her quickly and dropping his head, only to wrap his fingers around Emma’s as he turned back towards the restaurant. She swung open the door, the sounds of the crowd inside meeting her as soon as she walked in and Emma swore she felt her heart expand three sizes – like some kind of Thanksgiving Grinch – at the sight.

Ours.

He’d used the word ours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, have I told you all lately that I love you? I feel like I should. The response to this fic has been so incredible, I can't even tell you. This lil' thing that honestly started because two people were flirting on Cutthroat Kitchen. Agh. Y'all are the best. 
> 
> @laurnorder is also the best and reads all of this and makes sure I stop adding in extra words. She's a delight. 
> 
> Come flail with me on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	20. Chapter 20

“How’s this one look?”  
  
“Perfect.”   
  
“Yeah?”   


“You look fantastic, Emma.”

She did her best to smile, nodding slowly and tugging her teeth tightly over her lip as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Again. 

“The dress isn’t going to change if you keep looking at it,” Mary Margaret said, leaning against the small pile of pillows on the bed in Emma’s room. Emma met her gaze in the mirror, smile actually settling onto her face now. “And it’s a good thing,” Mary Margaret added, “because it looks really, ridiculously good.”

“Good,” Emma repeated, tearing her eyes away from the mirror and turning to look at a very self-satisfied Mary Margaret. 

“You know where you’re going yet?”   
  
Emma shook her head. “I have been kept completely in the dark. I think Henry has a few ideas or clues or whatever, but he refuses to crack.”

“He hasn’t said anything?”   
  
“Apparently he’s been sworn to secrecy.” Mary Margaret beamed at her. “What’s going on with you?” Emma asked. “You look like you’ve swallowed a canary.”

“No, I look like someone who’s incredibly proud of you.”   
  
“Proud of me?”   
  
“You’ve never done anything like this and I know you’re terrified it’s all going to fall apart, but I can’t think of anything that’s been better for you. Or Henry for that matter. I think this could be the start of something really fantastic.”   
  
“Well, don’t send out the save the dates quite yet,” Emma mumbled, eyes falling to the floor and the heels she was slightly nervous about wearing in the snow. “You think I should change my shoes? I don’t want them to get all gross.”   
  
“You don’t have to change your shoes.”   
  
“Excuse me?”   
  
Mary Margaret’s eyes widened slightly, like she just realized what she’d said and Emma’s mouth dropped open dramatically. “I mean,” she stuttered, “you probably don’t need to change your shoes. Probably. I don’t know.”   
  
“You’re an awful liar,” Emma laughed. 

“Yeah, well, now you know you don’t have to worry about shoes.”   
  
“What do you know?”   
  
“Nothing.”   
  
“Mary Margaret.”   
  
“I know what Henry told me because he said he needed  _ someone _ to talk to and he couldn't tell you and he didn’t want to tell David and that kind of exhausted all his options.”   
  
Emma crossed her arms, hoping she didn’t wrinkle the dress she had on and tapped her foot softly on the carpet underneath her heel. She opened her mouth to ask Mary Margaret what  _ exactly _ Henry knew, but didn’t get a chance – steps sounding down the hallway and a hand on the door and, suddenly, David was in the room, eyes falling on Emma and the dress and his pregnant wife on the bed. 

“Where’s the rest of it?” he asked pointedly, eyes darting around the room like it was some sort of crime scene he was trying to document. 

“Where’s the rest of what?”   
  
“Your outfit.”   
  
“David,” Mary Margaret sighed, head tilting to the side as he sunk onto the corner of the mattress, making it dip slightly. “Relax. It’s one date.”   
  
“And you promised not to be an ass anymore,” Emma pointed out. David raised his eyebrows at her, a vaguely scandalized look on his face like he hadn’t actually been an ass for the majority of this  _ whatever _ with her and Killian. 

“I’m never an ass,” he said quickly and even he couldn’t make it sound like the truth. 

Emma scoffed – the sound a mixture between a groan and a laugh and maybe she was actually entertained by this overprotective brother thing David was doing just a bit. “You were,” she countered. “For several weeks and a good chunk of unaccounted taxpayer dollars.”   
  
“What are you talking about?”   
  
“Background checks.”   
  
“It took me five minutes, I hardly think the taxpayers will miss a couple of dollars. And, anyway, it was for a good cause.”   
  
“I’m not some lost cause you have to look out for anymore.”   
  
David stared at her – eyes falling into  _ serious _ much quicker than Emma expected – before he stepped into her space, hand falling on her shoulder as he pulled her against him, holding her tightly like he had the first night she’d stayed at the house in Storybrooke. “I know that,” he muttered into her hair. “But let me look out for you, Em. That’s, like, my job.”

Emma sighed against him, faced pressed into his shoulder as she nodded slowly against his t-shirt. “You’re good at your job,” she said, all but whispering the words. 

His hand came off her shoulder – wrapping around the back of her head as he kissed the top of her hairline. “Thanks,” David said softly. “And you look gorgeous. You know that right?”   
  
She groaned loudly, rolling her eyes as she pulled away from him. “You’re a sap. You both are.”   
  
“Why are you lumping me into this?” Mary Margaret cried, sitting up straighter and forcefully crossing her arms over her chest. She didn’t even look remotely threatening. “I’m not the one who was being an overprotective jerk.”   
  
David laughed softly, taking a step away from Emma and holding his hand out for Mary Margaret as she pulled herself off the bed. “Yeah,” Emma agreed, “but you were all secretive with Henry and that’s got you lumped in.”   
  
“Hardly seems fair,” she mumbled. 

“Wait, wait, wait,” David said. “Secretive with Henry? About what?”   
  
“He knows where Killian’s taking Emma tonight.”   
  
“And he didn’t tell me?”   
  
“He didn’t think you’d want to know.”

David’s shoulders noticeably slumped and Mary Margaret kissed his cheek lightly, falling into  _ supportive _ so easily it nearly made Emma’s head spin. “It’s because you were being a jerk,” she said softly. 

“And we’re not doing that anymore, right?” Emma asked. “Because I need you to onboard with this, ok?”   
  
“Ok,” David said simply. And it was bigger than just two words. Because he’d always kind of been Emma’s hero and if this thing with Killian was going to work, she needed David to be there for her. She needed him to believe it could work too. 

“Yeah?”   
  
“I won’t be a jerk anymore. I won’t even give the overprotective speech I had planned for when he got here – just shake his hand and tell you two to have a good time.”   
  
“You had an overprotective speech ready?”   
  
“It’s my job, Emma.”   
  
She rolled her eyes, but that dead weight of anxiety and frustration she’d felt over the way David had been acting for the last few weeks seemed to disappear almost immediately, evaporating in a wave of older-brother promises and Mary Margaret’s smiles and how good she knew she looked in this dress. 

The buzzer downstairs sounded and Emma’s phone vibrated at, almost, the same time and David mumbled the word  _ efficient _ with only a minimal amount of judgement in it. “It’s a Navy thing,” Emma said quickly, taking a step back in front of the mirror to tug on the waist of the dress again. And maybe fix the lipstick she kept messing up from biting her lip. “You know, get to the bridge by 0800 or get thrown over the side of the ship or something. You should see the way he runs his kitchen. It’s a picture of efficiency.”   
  
“Did you just say ‘get to the bridge by 0800’?” David repeated, the amusement obvious just on the edge of his voice and Emma appreciated him not openly laughing in her face. 

“Or something. I don’t know all the Navy jargon.”   
  
“Jargon?”   
  
“I’m going to murder you.”

“That’s not very nice at all.”   
  
“No, it is the opposite of nice. In fact.”

David grinned at her – finally looking at ease as he pulled Mary Margaret close against his side – and Emma took a deep breath, tugging on the dress again. “Relax,” he said, nodding to her hands clenched around the blue fabric. “And go answer the door.”   
  
She didn’t have to. 

Henry was already standing in the doorway – door swung wide open with his hand still on the handle – and he glanced over his shoulder when he heard the sound of Emma’s heels behind him. “You look great, mom,” he said. “Like really great.”   
  
“Thanks, kid.”

He smiled at her, hand finally falling away from the door when the sound of feet came up the hallway and Emma’s head jerked up so quickly it almost hurt. And it took less than a full second for her eyes to meet his and the smile to form on  _ her _ face and he was staring at her like he’d never quite seen anything like her. 

Killian walked down the hallway – slow, measured steps that seem to fall into rhythm with Emma’s heartbeat in some strange, impossible moment – eyes trained on hers the entire time. Except for the brief moment when they focused on the cinched waist of her very blue dress and one side of his mouth tugged up at that and Emma pressed her heels into the ground so she’d stay in one place. 

He, finally, made it to the wide-open doorway, hand falling on Henry’s shoulder seemingly out of habit, but he didn’t stop looking at Emma for a moment. “Hey,” she said softly, not quite certain she could have come up with anything more intelligent to say if she tried. 

“You look stunning, Swan,” he said, voice low and eyes locked on hers and Emma blinked once, trying to remind herself of all the important reasons she needed to continue getting oxygen to her brain. 

She shook her head quickly, tongue darting over her lips and  _ that _ got him to move his gaze for a moment. “You look…”   
“I know,” he shrugged. 

Emma rolled her eyes, but couldn’t quite bring herself to argue with him. He  _ did _ – leather jacket and  _ God _ he must have the best tailor in the entire city because there was no way he just found jeans that fit that well. It was impossible. Or, possibly, some kind of clothing miracle.

Henry laughed – effectively shaking both Emma and Killian out of the moment – doing his best to try and turn the sound into some sort of hacking cough that didn’t really help the situation or even sound like anything other than exactly what he was trying to do. 

And then Mary Margaret and David were behind her and Ruth was still sitting on the living room couch and maybe they shouldn’t have called it a date because this was not how a first date was supposed to start. 

Killian hadn’t moved an inch, but his eyes darted over Emma’s shoulder and David coughed pointedly and she couldn’t help the sigh that fell off her lips. That got him to move, hand falling off Henry’s shoulder and brushing over her forearm, that encouraging smile on his face when he looked up at her. 

“Come on,” Emma mumbled. “Before David launches into some overprotective speech and thoughts on curfew.”   
  
“No one said anything about curfew,” David shouted as Emma rolled her eyes again. Killian was grinning openly now and Henry wasn’t even trying to turn his laughter into anything else anymore. 

“Don’t worry,” Killian said, glancing at David as his hand fell to Emma’s waist. “Your sister is in perfectly good hands.”

“Yeah, that’s what worries me.”   
  
“David,” Emma and Mary Margaret sighed at the same time. “You promised,” Emma added, turning to stare at her brother. 

He closed his eyes lightly and nodded, scowling slightly as he took a step towards her and Killian. “You’re right,” he said. “I did promise and, uh, I’m sorry, Killian. I hope you guys have a good time tonight.”   
  
“Thanks,” Killian said, hand moving away from Emma’s waist to reach out in the space between him and her brother. David took it without another word, shaking it quickly and Emma’s eyes darted to Mary Margaret, a slightly crazed expression on her face. Mary Margaret just nodded encouragingly. 

“You’re going to have the best time, mom,” Henry said quickly from his spot leaning against the doorframe. 

“Oh yeah?” she asked, eyebrows raised slightly and, now, Killian was laughing softly next to her. “I heard you know what’s going on.”   
  
Henry mouth dropped open quickly – like he hadn’t quite realized he’d been very close to divulging some crucial information – but Killian took a step towards him and Emma knew that stupid, encouraging smile had now been turned on her kid. “It’s fine, Henry,” he said, glancing back towards Emma, eyes practically flashing with amusement. “You didn’t say anything.”

“You better go though,” Mary Margaret said, “or you’ll miss your reservation.”   
  
“What?” Emma asked and Killian’s eyes squeezed shut. 

“You told Mary Margaret didn’t you?” he asked Henry, who just groaned in response. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Mary Margaret mumbled quickly. “It’s the hormones or something.”   
  
“You can’t use that for every single excuse in your life, M’s,” Emma said, fingers twining up with Killian’s before she’d really thought about her hand moving or the number of family members still watching this little interaction in front of her apartment door. 

“It’s alright, Swan,” Killian said, squeezing her hand slightly. “She’s not entirely wrong. We do have a reservation to make and I think they’re parked in a fire lane downstairs.”   
  
“What? Who?”   
  
“The car.”   
  
“The car?”   
  
“Come on, love,” he laughed – David’s eyes nearly fell out of his head at the word – and tugged her towards the hallway. “We won’t be out too late, David, I promise.”

And Emma couldn’t help the vaguely hysterical laughter that escaped her as the door closed behind her, the image of her brother’s slightly stunned face dancing in front of her eyes as she followed Killian towards the elevator. 

He’d been right – the car was absolutely parked in a fire lane. 

“What is this?” Emma asked, narrowing her eyes when Killian opened the backseat door, nodding towards the seat. 

“You’ve never seen a car before?”   
  
“You’re hysterical.”   
  
“Feel free to admit how charmed you are by all this,” he laughed, tugging the door shut when he followed her into the seat. He didn’t say anything to the driver – there was a  _ driver _ – before they started to move, just put his hand on her knee and smiled at her and she was absolutely charmed by all of this. 

Not that Emma would admit to any of that. 

At least not yet. 

“Where did you get a car from?” she asked, turning to face him. His hand moved with her – fingers trailing dangerously up her thigh when Emma shifted in the seat. “And where are we going? And where did you get a car?”   
  
“You’ve repeated yourself.”   
  
“I’m very curious.”

Killian pressed his lips together, nodding seriously and not moving his hand. “It’s a perk,” he said, shrugging like that explained it. 

“I don’t understand.”   
  
“Regina did it.”   
  
“Regina got the car?”   
  
He nodded again. “Unfortunately I don’t have the same kind of connections she has on that kind of front. So, yes, she did get the car.”   
  
“Seems like date-planning cheating.”   
  
“I did get the dinner reservation.”   
  
“Ah,” Emma laughed, hand trailing over the back of his neck and Killian’s eyes closed softly. “Well, then I suppose that’s alright then. A reservation? That means we’re not going to The Jolly, then?”   
  
“You think I’d plan a date and just bring you to my own restaurant?”

Emma shrugged. “I didn’t want to assume.”   
  
“You can assume that. At least.”   
  
“And you told Henry your plan?”   
  
“I told Henry  _ some  _ of my plan. He is twelve, I didn’t think a few of the finer points of the plan were really all that appropriate. Mostly I just wanted to make sure the place we’re going was something you’d like.”

Emma’s eyes widened, mind racing at that little tidbit of information – or multiple tidbits. And she couldn’t quite breathe again, especially not with his hand on her thigh still. “You know I don’t pillage and plunder on the first date,” she mumbled, eyes falling to her feet as Killian chuckled softly next to her. 

“More pirate puns, love? I thought we were done with that.”   
  
“C’mon, give me a bit of credit, that was a good one.”   
  
“It’s not our first date, though,” Killian argued, hand coming up to wrap around the back of her neck and tug Emma closer to him until she didn’t have any choice but to look up at him. “If we’re being technical.”   
  
His fingers brushed along her jaw, moving into her hair and his small, nervous smile was doing something to her ability to stay where she was sitting in this Town Car rented by his producer. “You should have been more specific before then,” she countered. “Made sure to define things better.”   
  
“Were you looking for a definition?”   
  
“Or something.”   
  
Killian nodded once, eyes narrowing like  _ he _ was trying to find some sort of definition to something in Emma’s eyes or the turn of her smile and then he moved a fraction of an inch and caught her mouth with his and, well, as far as definitions went, that one wasn’t all that bad. 

He kissed her like he  _ needed _ her or something ridiculously romantic and far too serious for first – possibly second, depending on who you asked – dates, hand in her hair and prosthetic resting on her hip and Emma was practically straddling him in the backseat when the car came to an abrupt stop at a red light, making her jerk against him. 

And the groan he made at that was absolutely unfair. 

Emma’s head fell on his shoulder and Killian trailed kisses along the side of her neck and this car ride needed to be over fairly soon because she was positive if they had many more blocks to go, she was absolutely going to break her own rules, pirate-related puns or not. 

Killian’s hand skimmed over her arm, brushing down towards her wrist and leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake that left him laughing against her neck. She could  _ feel  _ his smile and the way his chest heaved slightly as he tried to catch his breath. 

“Was that the definition?” she asked softly. “Because I’m not entirely sure I’ve got it all figured out quite yet.”   
  
His whole chest shook with laughter, left arm wrapping tightly around her waist and holding her against him like an anchor or a life vest or something vaguely nautical that Emma was positive she could have come up with were she not so pleasantly occupied already. 

“I’m sure we can work on that,” Killian said. “We’ve got a few more blocks.”

“Where are we going, exactly?”   
  
“That’s a surprise.”   
  
“One you told my kid.”   
  
“As previously mentioned, Swan, I was just double checking on likes and interests and any potentially life-threatening food allergies.”   
  
“I don’t have any of those.”   
  
“So Henry said.”   
  
Emma pulled her head off his shoulder, meeting his gaze and, not for the first time, she was struck with the overwhelming feeling that this was almost too good be to true. There had to be  _ something _ wrong, a shoe to drop or a deep, dark secret just ready to come to light that would ruin everything. 

And then Killian smiled at her and traced his thumb behind her ear and Emma found herself hoping in a way she didn’t believe she’d been capable of only a few months ago. “You alright, love?” he asked. 

She nodded quickly, the jerky movement hurting her neck slightly. “Yeah, yeah I’m fine,” she said. 

“But?”

“But are you like secretly a serial killer or something? Like you have skin lamps in your basement or you actually poison your customers?”

“Excuse me?” he asked, eyebrows falling low like Emma was actually crazy. Maybe she was. She was also paranoid. And she wanted him to be as good as he seemed. 

“You checked with Henry about tonight and you got a car from Regina and no one’s ever done anything like that before. It’s just kind of overwhelming? I guess. I don’t know, I’m babbling. It’s good. It’s really good. I’m just not used to it.”   
  
Emma held her breath, waiting for some kind of response to her overwhelming amount of undefined relationship anxiety and, for one vaguely terrifying moment, she thought she noticed something that resembled nerves pass over Killian’s face, but it was gone as soon as she blinked, replaced by that frustratingly attractive smile and a spark in his eyes and his arm tightened around her waist when he spoke. 

“I’m not a serial killer. And I’m not sure I entirely understand what skin lamps are and I don’t poison my customers. You’re not dealing with some sort of Sweeney Todd situation here.”   
  
“He didn’t poison them,” Emma countered. “Just fed them other humans. You know, like after killed them in his barber shop.”   
  
“Ah, my mistake.”   
  
She tried to take a deep breath, pulling air into her lungs with much more effort than it normally took and that may have had something to do with the look on Killian’s face – like he didn’t mind the nerves or the anxiety and maybe like  _ he _ was the one being charmed by it all. 

“Why?” Emma asked.    
  
Killian’s eyebrows shot up, eyes wide when he met her gaze. “Why what?”   
  
“Why’d you do it? Ask Henry questions and get this car and a dinner reservation wherever we are?”   
  
Killian shifted slightly in his seat, jostling Emma against his legs when he moved, but his eyes didn’t fall away from hers and she was actually a bit impressed by that. He took a deep breath – with what seemed like a lot less effort than Emma – setting his shoulders in a straight line. “I wanted to,” he said simply. 

“Yeah?”   
  
“What are you doubting, Swan?”   
  
“All of it.”   
  
He laughed softly, leaning forward to brush his lips across her forehead. “Rough review.”   
  
“No, no, that’s not what I meant,” she stuttered quickly. “I’m not sure I’ve ever been on a real date before.”   
  
“Not even with...”   
  
Emma shook her head. “No,” she said, brushing past what she and Neal  _ actually _ did the summer after she graduated high school. “And I’ve been so focused on Henry and work and the show ever since then that all of  _ this _ kind of fell by the wayside. So I’ve never really been on a date and you show up and I just need to know why.”   
  
“Why I showed up?”   
  
“And why you wanted to.”   
  
“Emma,” he said, the sound of her name lingering in the air around them like he called her that all the time and it didn’t mean  _ something _ huge and important and vaguely overwhelming for a first and/or second date. “I showed up  _ because _ I wanted to. Because you walked into that conference room three months ago and I haven’t been able to get you out of my head since. And because if anyone deserves to go on a date it is, absolutely, you.”

She was still sitting on his legs. In the backseat of a Town Car. And she couldn’t stop blinking. It was like she kept trying to see if he’d disappear if she closed her eyes. 

He didn’t. 

He was still there, hand on her hip and smile on his face and blue eyes staring up at her like he did want her and her emotional hangups and her twelve-year-old kid. 

And she wanted him too. 

Emma almost fell off his legs when the car stopped abruptly again, drawing a frustrated groan out of Killian and a quick apology out of the driver. “Sorry about that Mr. Jones,” the man said. “We’re here.”

She couldn’t help the laugh at  _ Mr. Jones _ and Killian rolled his eyes at her, nudging Emma back off his legs as he swung open the door. “Thanks, Leroy,” he said. “You don’t have to worry about coming back later. We’ll probably just take a cab back.”   
  
“But Ms. Mills said…”   
  
“Yeah, I know what Ms. Mills said. This is what I’m saying we’re good.”   
“Whatever you say, sir. Have a nice night.”

Killian nodded towards the rear-view mirror, pulling himself out of the car and holding his hand out to Emma. She took it without a second thought. “Come on, Swan,” he said lightly, turning her on the sidewalk towards a small restaurant on the corner. “We’ve got a reservation to make.” 

* * *

The look on her face almost made asking Regina for a Town Car worth it.

It took Emma about three minutes and a moment in front of the hostess desk to figure out where exactly they were and another thirty seconds for her hand to grip his forearm tightly in surprise. And it was totally worth it. 

“You look a little bit stunned there, Swan,” Killian laughed, pushing her forward slightly to follow the hostess towards a table in the corner. 

“How did you get in here?” she hissed, staring at him over her shoulder while her feet moved. And she didn’t stumble once in those ridiculous high heels she was wearing.    
  
Here, of course, being Kristof Dellen’s restaurant in the East Village. Which no one could get into for weeks – at least not since that  _ Times _ review came out a few months ago. It hadn’t been easy – although it was easier than talking to Regina about cross-town transportation – and he felt kind of bad having to swear Belle to  _ another _ secret, but Belle knew Anna and Anna, presumably, knew her husband since Anna had gotten Killian and Emma the reservation in her husband’s restaurant two days after Thanksgiving. 

Killian grinned at Emma, moving around her to pull out her chair and she shot him a speculative look. He shrugged. “No one gets in here,” Emma continued, pulling the chair underneath the table, that same speculative look on her face. “It’s supposed to be locked up for months.”   
  
“They say the same thing about The Jolly.”   
  
“Yeah, well  _ you’re _ The Jolly.”   
  
“I’m my restaurant? That’s an interesting development.”   
  
Emma rolled her eyes and Killian couldn’t keep the smile off his face, enjoying  _ this _ far too much. “You know what I mean.”   
  
“I do.”   
  
“How did you get in here?”   
  
“You can’t just accept this for what it is?”   
  
Killian moved his eyebrows quickly, leaning against the back of his chair. “And what is it? Exactly?”   
  
“I’m wooing you,” he said, without a trace of sarcasm in his voice. “Of course.”   
  
“Of course,” Emma repeated. Her voice didn’t shake, but her shoulders were tight and she was sitting up straighter, eyes falling on the impeccably polished silverware in front of her. And he realized she hadn’t been exaggerating before – she really didn’t understand. 

She thought he was lying. Or faking. Or some sort of thing that had the walls nearly as high as ever. Well, this was a siege – of sorts. 

And he’d get her to trust him by the time tonight was over. 

He was going to tell her. 

Everything. 

Killian grinned at her, leaning across the table to wrap his fingers around Emma’s and her shoulders slumped a bit. That felt like a victory of some sorts. 

“What do you want to drink, Swan?” he asked, thumb ghosting over the back of her wrist. “They won’t be nearly as good as mine, but it’s a start.”   
  
Emma smirked at him, sides of her mouth tilting up and she looked like she couldn’t quite decide if he was serious or not. “Ah, I don’t know, maybe just water?” she said softly, eyes flashing up from underneath his eyelashes and he probably shouldn’t try and kiss her in the middle of this very crowded restaurant. 

“Worried you’ll just find me even more charming with a few too many drinks in you?”   
  
She rolled her eyes at him and Killian was fairly positive he could talk to her forever. And keep teasing her for longer. “That ego is bordering close to astronomical, you know.”   
  
“I’ve heard that, strangely enough.”   
  
“Wine.”   
  
“Wine?”   
  
“Wine.”   
  
Killian nodded seriously, nodding towards a waiter in the corner and there was a bottle of wine on the table in the span of four seconds, glasses half filled with whatever Kristoff had figured out for them earlier that afternoon. He lifted his glass, tilting it forward like he had that night at The Jolly and he should have called it a date then. 

He was glad they were calling it a date tonight. 

“For good luck,” he said softly and it was absolutely worth it. 

“I’m not sure you need it,” Emma muttered, leaning across the table towards him and he couldn’t tell if she meant to do that or not, just knew he didn’t care. “Now, come on, spill, how did you get into this restaurant?”   
  
“It’s a very convoluted story. Lots of twists and turns and text messages with Henry.”   
  
Emma grinned – she was totally leaning over the table on purpose and he should ask where she got that dress because it might be his new favorite article of clothing in the entire history of fashion. “Luckily I’ve got all night,” she said, voice sinking into the space between his ribs like it belonged there. 

He told her the whole story and then several more and the smile never left her face once, hand only pulling away from his when the food landed on their table. It was good – as far as first, or maybe second, dates went. 

And the food was delicious. 

That was important too. 

“This is really absurdly good,” Emma said for what might have been the fourth time in the last twenty minutes. “Like delicious.”   
  
“So you’ve said,” Killian laughed. 

“I just wanted to make sure you knew.”   
  
“I’ve picked up on it, love. It is good food. Not as good as yours, certainly not as good as mine, but, you know, good date food.”   
  
Emma’s smile twisted across her face, dropping her fork back on the table. “What qualifies as date food? Exactly?”   
  
“Fancy,” he shrugged, eyes flashing up and the smile was enormous now. “Something sweet at the end.”   
  
“So sure of yourself.”   
  
“I’ve got a good feeling.”   
  
“Tell me something.”   
  
“Like?”   
  
“Like how Will Scarlett ended up working at The Jolly.”   
  
Killian’s eyes widened slightly – that hadn’t been the question he’d been anticipating. He shouldn’t have been surprised. She wanted to  _ know _ things and he wanted to tell her, give her an in and a sense of confidence and he wanted to take her on another date. 

Like the next day.

Or maybe she just didn’t have to go home. 

“That’s a very long story,” Killian said. 

“You said that before and, as previously, mentioned, my schedule tonight is pretty wide open. I’ve got a full glass of wine, I just ate my weight in homemade pasta and I want to know how Will Scarlett ended up at your restaurant.”   
  
Killian stared at her – waiting for something he wasn’t sure actually had a name, but might have been colloquially known as  _ the other shoe. _  It never came. Emma Swan wanted to know and he was fairly positive her eyes fell to his lips at some point. 

“He’s a friend of Robin’s,” Killian started, hoping he got the details of it right. It was a fairly long story. “From about eight million years and several ships ago.”   
  
“Will was in the Navy too? God, you guys should be draped in red, white and blue at this point.”   
  
“No one ended their respective relationships with their country’s service very well, Swan. Except Robin. Wounded in action, left decorated and with a ridiculous pension and more medals than one man can actually hold on their uniform.”  
  
“Downright honorable of him,” Emma laughed, still leaning across the table. 

“Anyway,” Killian said pointedly, tugging on her fingers slightly. “They knew each other a long time ago, but things get kind of crazy when you relocate to a different country and it was a couple of years ago when they ran into each other in the city. Will was, well, let’s say not doing so well. At all.”   
  
“What was going on?”   
  
“He, uh, lost someone.”   
  
“Someone he cared about?”   
  
Killian nodded slowly – treading dangerously close to his own backstory and the disturbing amount of shared experience he seemed to have with Will Scarlett. “He cared about her a lot, had known her since the Navy days and, from what Robin told me, once she was gone, he kind of came unhinged a bit. Came to New York with no plan whatsoever, just a fairly pitiful pension and a shitty job that barely paid for the apartment he was living in.”   
  
“So, what? You played hero?” Emma asked, smiling at him like she believed that he kind of could be. “Gave him a job and let him be slightly snarky behind your bar?”   
  
Killian tilted his head, twisting his mouth up at her and wondering why they hadn’t gotten some sort of dessert yet. “Not to start,” he said. “He washed dishes for about a year before he even thought about walking behind the bar. I’m very particular about my bar, Swan.”   
  
“I’ve noticed.”   
  
“That so?”   
  
Emma nodded seriously. “You run your restaurant like you’re on a boat.” His elbow slipped off the side of the table, nearly pulling every single piece of cutlery with it and Killian had to blink a few times before he looked back up at her. She tried to smile at him, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes, just a nervous expression that made her shoulders straighten again. 

“What?” she asked and he knew she thought she’d said something wrong. 

She hadn’t – she’d just surprised him, again. 

“It’s a ship, Swan,” he muttered, putting his arm back on the table. “Not a boat.”   
  
“Of course.”   
  
“And I don’t run my restaurant like that. I’m all done with the Navy, remember.”   
  
“Yuh huh,” she replied noncommittally.  

“You have an opinion on that?”   
  
Emma’s eyes flashed towards him and she took a deep breath, pulling her hand away slightly and sitting up straighter again. The table shifted a bit when she crossed her legs under it and pressed her lips together tightly. “I might,” she said. 

“And?”

“And I don’t understand why you won’t let yourself have this.”   
  
“Have what?”   
  
“You’re a good guy,” Emma said and the words shot straight through his body and maybe the restaurant was on fire, but he wouldn’t have noticed, too preoccupied with the serious look on her face. “You know that right? You can admit to that, at least.”   
  
“At least,” he scoffed.

“Killian.”   
  
“What, Swan?”   
  
“Why are you being so difficult about this?”   
  
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She sighed loudly, drawing a fair share of glances from the people around them, and stared at him like this wasn’t absolutely killing the entire moment. “You’re allowed to take credit for some things. A lot of things. That’s ok.”   
  
Killian bit back his immediate response, some jab about the United States government and time spent worried about being hauled off to jail at any moment and a very serious relationship with rum and looked at her – watching him warily, a tiny smile on her face as she pushed her hair off her shoulders and shifted in her chair. 

And maybe if she believed it, it might actually be true. 

“You helped him find an apartment too, didn’t you?” Emma asked.    
  
“Nah, Robin did that.”   
  
“Of course.”

She leaned forward again, hand resting on the table for a moment before it traced over the prosthetic attached to his left forearm and that might have been the first time she’d actually touched it – she normally lingered just above his wrist. 

Killian knew his eyes widened, knew his breath had caught in his throat – the pain in his lungs making that  _ obvious _ – but Emma didn’t move her hand or her gaze and the small smile on her face didn’t waver once. She just held his hand – even though it didn’t really exist anymore. 

“You want to get out of here?” Killian asked, the idea dawning on him suddenly and the flush of excitement that shot through him when she nodded wasn’t like anything he’d ever quite felt before. 

“I’d like that.”   
  
That was all he needed to pull her towards the door and hail a cab to Gowanus. 

Her hand never left his while they sat in the cab, eyes darting towards him occasionally, but never actually asking where they were going. Killian appreciated it – not quite sure what he’d tell if she  _ did _ ask, not quite positive why he wanted to take her to an open construction site in the middle of what was a pretty fucking, fantastic date, but he needed her to see it when he explained. 

The cab rolled over the gravel just outside the warehouse and Emma’s head snapped up when the cab stopped suddenly, eyes wide with the questions she still wasn’t asking. “We’re here,” he said, handing a handful of bills to the driver and tugging her towards the door. 

“And where exactly is here?” she asked, leaning against his side as the cab sped back towards Manhattan. “You promised you weren’t a serial killer.”   
  
Killian’s laughter made Emma jump slightly and he slung his arm over her shoulder, walking down the short path to – the admittedly very dark – warehouse. “I’m still not a serial killer, love, there’s just something I wanted to show you.”   
  
“Yeah?”   
  
He hummed in response, holding up the blue tarp that Marco had put across the door they, somehow, still hadn’t installed, holding his cellphone out in front of him so Emma at least had some light to walk by. She grabbed her own phone as well, thumb sliding across the screen for the flashlight and he had absolutely no control over the smile on his face when she did that. 

“What is this?” she asked, pulling the front of her jacket tightly over her. There wasn’t exactly a central heating system – or a door. Or lights. 

“It’s mine.”   
  
“Yours?”   
  
“Yup,” he said, popping the ‘p’ on the word on his lips and smiling at her as he rocked back on his heels. “Mostly.”   
  
“How can you mostly own a building?”   
  
“It’s a work in progress. You know like deposits and all that.”   
  
Emma nodded slowly, eyeing him for a moment before glancing up at the ceiling, turning in a small circle as she dragged her heel through the line of dust on the floor and, suddenly, Killian’s stomach felt like it was filled with concrete. 

He wanted to tell her – to explain Gold – but there she was in his restaurant and she was holding her flashlight in her hand and he could only half see her, but it looked like she was smiling and he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t let her think anything but the best of him – at least for that night. “It’s impressive,” she said softly, glancing back at him with a smile on her face. 

Killian was positive his heart stopped beating for a moment and he nearly choked on the oxygen he was desperately trying to get into his lungs. “What?” he stuttered. 

“Jolly 2.0,” she said, stepping towards him and resting her hands on the front of his jacket. “That’s what this is, isn’t it? The expansion?”   
  
He nodded, fingers wrapping around one of her wrists. “You’re smart.”   
  
“You brought me to a giant warehouse that’s half constructed, it didn’t take a lot to put two and two together, honestly. I like it.” She stepped back, walking towards the new windows they’d installed earlier that week, running her hand along the brick wall in the back. “How many tables you think you can fit in here?”   
  
“Fifty.”   
  
Emma let out a low whistle and widened her eyes. “Impressive. And you’re going to send Eric here?”   
  
“How is everyone figuring that out?”   
  
“Are a lot of people figuring it out?”   
  
“If you and Robin count as a everyone, then, yes, everyone is figuring it out.” He shrugged, tilting his head to the side and taking a step towards her, nudging her back against the wall until all he could see was Emma. “It’s a lot of tables though.”   
  
“It’s a giant restaurant.”   
  
“You’re not doing much to assuage those nerves, love,” he laughed, hand resting on her hip as she leaned back against the wall. 

“You don’t need me to stroke that ego. I already told you I thought you were some kind of hero tonight, I’m not sure you need more compliments. Plus, anyone could take one look at this restaurant and see you’re going to be fun. You wouldn’t be able to afford it if you weren’t going to be fine.”   
  
Emma smiled like she’d proved her point beyond a shadow of a doubt – and Killian fought off that fresh wave of guilt over not telling her. Again. “I’m not a hero, Swan,” he said, pressing his other hand up against the wall so he had her caged in front of him. “You don’t have to pretend like that’s true.”   
  
“I’m not.”   
  
And that did it – he sighed loudly, pulling his hand away and running it through his hair as he turned away from her. He heard Emma gasp softly, the whiplash of his frustration taking her entirely by surprise, but Killian couldn’t bring himself to look at her, knowing full-well whatever expression was on her face was entirely his fault. 

Because he wasn’t a hero. 

He was an asshole. 

And possibly a coward – who couldn’t tell her the truth about this restaurant. 

“What just happened?” Emma asked, voice cracking in the empty warehouse. He smiled – asshole – turning around at the sound of her own frustrated voice and she glared at him, narrowing her eyes. “Are you honestly mad at me for thinking you’re a good person? Because that seems like kind of a shitty thing to do on a first date.”   
  
“Second date,” he mumbled and, somehow, her eyes got even thinner. “I’m sorry, Swan.”   
  
“I’m just confused."  He heaved another sigh, shoulders practically moving to another area code as he took a small step back towards Emma, tugging on the back of his hair so tightly it almost hurt. “What aren’t you saying? Why’d you bring me here? Because if you were trying to impress me, I’m going to be honest, one restaurant and a stint on Iron Chef was doing a pretty good job of that already.”   
  
“You telling me you’re impressed with me, love?” he asked, leaning forward cautiously until she finally stopped glaring at him. 

“Don’t push it.”  
  
“I brought you here because I wanted you to see it. To see what I’m working towards. Or something. I don’t know, this place is important to me and I wanted you here.”   
  
“And?”

“And what? That’s not enough?”   
  
“What aren’t you saying?” Emma repeated and for one crazy second he thought he might be in love with her simply because no one had ever quite called him out like that before. And maybe because she kept doing that thing where her teeth tugged on her bottom lip and he wanted to get her into the backseat of some car and kiss her again until her lips were swollen. 

That might have been it too. 

“I’m not a hero, Swan. Or a Lieutenant. And you keep calling me both.”   
  
“Because you are,” she argued quickly, but he cut her off before she could say anything else, wrapping his hand around her wrist. 

Emma snapped her mouth shut – the sound ringing in his ears – and then the words were spilling out of his mouth and he couldn’t stop it if he tried. 

“I am not,” he said again, eyes meeting Emma’s and he saw her swallow, the muscles in her throat working as she tried not to blink. “Because if I was, I wouldn’t be here.”   
  
“I don’t understand.”   
  
“Liam shouldn’t have died. He shouldn’t have been out in the storm or worried about that ensign because that was my job. We knew the storm was coming and I should have been able to get them all inside, but I didn’t and he went out and tried to save him and he died.

And I ran away and I turned my back on everything Liam ever wanted for me, but I thought it would be ok again when I met her and I started working again and she didn’t look at me like I’d done some sort of disservice to my country or something.”

“Milah?” Emma asked, eyes falling towards his forearm and the tattoo she’d asked about months ago. 

Killian nodded. “Milah. I met her in a bar. Of course. I’d gotten fairly good at drinking shitty rum at that point and she was two seats to my left, drinking scotch. Straight. She’d just left her husband, some ass of man who couldn’t bring himself to walk out his door, let alone acknowledge her and she was...everything.”   
  
“You loved her?”   
  
“I did. It all happened quickly, absurdly quickly and if I’d had my head on straight, I probably would have questioned it. She moved in two weeks later and it was good and I, well, I  _ believed _ in something again. I believed in her and I didn’t think I’d ever get that after Liam died. But Milah was that. We made plans and we were going to get out of New York and then…”   
  
He tried to take a deep breath again, finally running out of words and his head felt like it was going to split in two. He kind of felt like he was going to split in two. 

And then Emma spoke, a soft voice a few feet in front of him and a hand on his brace and eyes that, somehow, were still just as bright in that dark warehouse as they had been in the restaurant. 

“The car accident?” she whispered. He nodded and she bit her lip again. 

“I woke up in a bed with more wires sticking out of me than I was aware even existed in the entire modern world and they told me  _ I was lucky _ . Like I’d won some sort of disgusting lottery. And Milah lost.”   
  
Emma pulled her lips behind her teeth, eyes narrowing again and this was, absolutely  _ pushing _ or some kind of emotional overkill that wasn’t appropriate first date conversation fodder. “They told me they did everything to try and save my hand, but there wasn’t anything they could do. And I was just supposed to accept it.”   
  
“Did you?”   
  
“Not for a long time. Maybe not now even.” He sighed again, head falling forward until it rested on Emma’s forehead, both of their eyes trained on their feet and the seemingly absurd amount of dust that coated the warehouse floor. “I’m not a hero, Swan. I shouldn’t even be here. I’m just painfully good at surviving.”   
  
Her hand left his brace, fingers brushing over the back of his neck and into his hair and Emma pulled her eyes up towards his face, making him follow her gaze until they were staring at each other. 

“I’m glad,” she said softly and two words shouldn’t make him reconsider his entire worldview. He was probably just close to freezing in the middle of this soon-to-be-restaurant. “And I’m glad you brought me here.”

“For the record, I was kind of trying to show off.”   
  
“That’s ok. Consider me appropriately impressed.”

He let out a huff of air, lifting his forehead away from hers, but only after leaning forward to brush his lips over it, pushing his hand into Emma’s hair. “I don’t know if I’ve been on a real date since then,” he said softly. 

“Really?”

“I’ve been kind of busy.”   
  
“Building some sort of restaurant empire in multiple boroughs?”   
  
“I don’t know about an empire.”   
  
“Fifty tables, Killian! Fifty. That’s an empire.”   
  
“Again, not exactly bursting with confidence here, Swan.”   
  
“Ah, well if it’s any consolation I’m more than willing to come out here and chop vegetables whenever needed.”   
  
Emma moved her eyebrows up and down quickly – trying to copy him and not even coming close – and maybe he believed in her more than anything. “I appreciate that,” he said, meaning it completely. “And you’re going to get your timeslot back, you know.”   
  
He meant that too. Completely. 

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”   
  
“I’m not.”

He wasn’t sure who moved first, the only thing he cared about was her lips on his and that noise she made in the back of her throat when his thumb trailed along her collarbone, pushing up her against the wall so her hips rolled against his instinctively. 

And then he might have made a noise. 

Emma’s hands were under his jacket and he’d dropped his phone and she was tugging on his shirt and trying to move her fingers against his hips. And they were totally alone. For, quite possibly, the first time. 

God, they were by themselves. 

In a warehouse. 

They should have gone somewhere else. Where Emma wasn’t pushed up a brick wall and both of them weren’t shivering slightly because of how cold it was. She didn’t stop kissing him though. And he didn’t stop kissing her. 

So, naturally, the wind gusted off the Canal and the tarp flew off what would eventually be a door and Emma jumped, falling into Killian’s chest and knocking the wind out of him. They stopped kissing then.    
  
“Maybe we should get out of here,” he mumbled, not quite able to bring himself away from her mouth. 

“It is kind of cold.”   
  
“It’s freezing cold.”   
  
“Make sure you put heat in this place before you open it, ok?”   
  
“Duly noted.”   
  
Emma nodded once, lips doing something impossibly twisted that made him want to kiss her all over again – she didn’t make him wait, leaning forward quickly to brush her lips across his. “You can’t do that, Swan,” Killian muttered. “Otherwise we’ll never get out of here and then we’ll both freeze to death.”   
  
“That would be tragic.”

“Your brother would probably bring me back from the dead just to kill me again.”   
  
She swatted at his shoulder lightly, but her laughter did something very specific to his desire to bring her anywhere with other people around. “He’s promised to be nicer. For real this time. Otherwise I’ll punch him right in the face.”   
  
“No need for you to get violent, love.”   
  
“If I’m not going to defend your honor, who is?”

Killian stared at her – so serious he wasn’t sure she’d even tried to be sarcastic – leaning forward to kiss Emma’s forehead again as he slung his arm over her shoulder and tugged her back towards the door, wondering how exactly they were going to get a cab in this godforsaken neighborhood. 

He kicked the tarp further back into the room and Emma laughed again, pressing her body tightly against his and resting her head on his shoulder. “There’ll be a door there eventually,” he said softly. “I promise.”   
  
“I look forward to seeing it,” Emma said. And that felt like a promise too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THEY WENT ON A DATE. There's going to be some stuff going on now - especially since Killian didn't tell Emma everything. But we'll still be in this fluff bubble for a little bit longer. 
> 
> As always, I can't thank you guys enough for every click, comment and kudos. It blows me away every single time. And a resounding YOU'RE THE BEST to @laurnorder who dealt with some vaguely ridiculous typos this chapter. 
> 
> Come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	21. Chapter 21

“Why do we never bring enough?”  
  
“Because you have a confidence problem and refuse to believe that people will actually buy anything here.”

Killian stared at Robin, face set at impassive while his friend just shrugged at him. “It’s true,” Robin said, leaning against the side of the tiny booth they were crammed in. “You never think it’ll actually sell and then you show up for five minutes and people lose their minds and we sell out. It’s happened every time we do this.”  
  
“Doesn’t mean it’ll always happen,” Killian muttered, reaching out almost unconsciously to rest his hand on Roland’s head when the seven-year-old collided with his side. 

“Then why are you asking me questions you’re just going to brush off anyway?”  
  
Killian’s face shifted from impassive to interested quicker than he expected, mouth twisting and eyebrows lowering and Robin crossed his arms defiantly. “What’s your problem?”  
  
“I don’t have a problem.”  
  
“Dad and Gina were angry before,” Roland mumbled into Killian’s jeans. Robin sighed loudly – earning a curious glance from a tourist standing in the line that was wrapping around the side of the pop-up booth in Union Square. 

Killian looked meaningfully at Robin – eyes still closed – before bending down to grab Roland around the waist, moving him to the edge of the counter so he could keep an eye on him while he tried to come up with something to tell this line of tourists who wanted barbecue sauce and photos. He didn’t have barbecue sauce and he didn’t really want to take any photos. 

He needed to get back to The Jolly and call Emma. 

He mostly needed to call Emma. 

Two weeks removed from their first  _ official _ date and neither one had done anything to completely self-destruct this still as-yet-to-be-defined relationship. Killian was both impressed and slightly frustrated that he couldn’t openly call Emma Swan his girlfriend yet. He was a coward and incredibly busy. 

And now he had  _ this _ to figure out. 

“Don’t kick your feet out mate,” he muttered towards Roland. “You’re going to hit me.”  
  
“Sorry, Uncle Killian,” Roland said softly, eyes darting down towards his shoes. “Can we have mac and cheese later?”   
  
“You can have whatever you want later.”   
  
Roland looked up at him, smile on his face and every issue with his father and Regina, apparently, long forgotten in promises of cheese and pasta and, likely, some form of ice cream. “Cool,” he said, sounding far more _ grown up _ than Killian had ever heard. “There are a lot of people out there.”   
  
“I’m very popular.”   
  
Roland laughed softly, pulling his feet up on the counter so he could turn around and look out at the crowd in front of the building – some with phones out, the sound of camera shutters echoing in Killian’s ears. And, suddenly, he understood exactly why Emma refused to let Henry on her show. Suddenly, he got very defensive – in a way that might have been overstepping  _ uncle _ and  _ the guy who makes dinner every night _ boundaries. 

“This isn’t a photo shoot,” he shouted out at the crowd. “And there’s no barbecue sauce. So either you all want to buy what we’ve got here or you need to get out of here, because this has got to be some kind of fire hazard.”   
  
“We’re outside,” Robin muttered, back still pressed up against the wall. He opened his eyes, staring at Killian with something that almost resembled amusement. “There are no fire codes. And you better hope no one was recording that because Gina will absolutely kill you if that makes it on the internet.”  
  
“Might distract her from whatever you were angry about,” Killian shot back, glancing out at the crowd like it was there specifically to ruin the good mood he’d been harboring for the last two weeks. 

Robin groaned loudly – the noise catching Killian off guard as he pushed off the wall, walking towards Roland and wrapping his hand around the boy’s shoulder. “It’s not good,” he said softly. 

Killian nodded slowly, reaching forward without a second thought to slam down the front of the window, ignoring the sounds of the very disappointed line that had been waiting more than a half an hour for barbecue sauce he didn’t have. “She’s not going to like that either,” Robin muttered. “Bad for the network or something.”  
  
“What’s going on?” Killian asked, resting his back against the counter as Roland sidled up against him, crossing his own arms as well. 

Robin glanced warily at his son, shaking his head slightly. Killian didn’t move – face falling back into that neutral, impassive look to try and work some information out of his friend. It took all of five seconds before Robin’s resolve gave out. 

“We met with the adoption agent today,” he said. 

Killian raised one eyebrow. “When did that start?”  
  
“Couple of weeks ago.”  
  
“And, what? It just slipped your mind to let me know?”  
  
“You’ve been busy,” Robin brushed off. “And you’ve got your own stuff to deal with.”

“Stuff?”  
  
“Relationship stuff. Or still undefined relationship stuff. You figure out if you can call Emma your girlfriend yet?”  
  
He groaned, rolling his eyes for good measure and Robin smirked at him like he’d successfully distracted Killian. “We’re not talking about that right now. We’re talking about what’s got you angry and why meeting with an adoption agent is a bad thing.”

Robin glanced down at Roland once more – entirely preoccupied with the phone in his hand and the very loud game he was playing – before tugging Killian towards the back of the booth like that would somehow make this conversation easier. 

“We met with the agent today,” he started, “and she told us that she’s not certain that this is going to work.”   
  
“What’s not going to work?”   
  
“Gina adopting Roland.”   
  
“What?”   
  
Robin nodded slowly, but his eyes were dark and his shoulders dropped a bit, like he’d been carrying the weight of that sentence on them for the better part of the last few hours. “Apparently it’s something about citizenship and Rol not being born here and who knew I could fuck everything up just by having some sort of mental breakdown after Marion died.”   
  
“I don’t understand.”   
  
“Neither do I, really, but the agent seemed very certain. There’s a lot of paperwork and probably some court dates to determine if Gina is  _ fit _ or something stupid, like she hasn’t basically raised Roland with me for the last five years and we’ll have to get character witnesses and it’s apparently going to take forever, even after we’re married.”

“Character witnesses?”  
  
“Yeah, like to stand in front of a judge and prove Regina and I won’t ruin Roland’s psyche if she’s got actual parental rights.”  
  
“I’ll do it,” Killian said, shrugging. 

“What?” Robin stared at him like he’d just suggested they steal the Declaration of Independence or break into the Pentagon or something. “Really? Under oath.”  
  
“I mean, if the United States will accept my oath without the Bible turning into ash as soon as I touch it, then sure. Of course.”  
  
Robin moved so quickly all Killian saw was a flash of maybe tear-stained eyes and arms and brown hair and then he was being hugged so tightly he was positive his kidneys were being crushed. 

“You’d really do that?” Robin asked again. 

“You don’t have to keep asking. Sure I’ll do it. Gina’s great with Roland and, I mean, I know you don’t want her to replace Marion, but like you said, she’s basically raised him for the last five years. There’s no reason she shouldn’t be able to adopt him.”  
  
“Thank you,”  Robin said seriously, but Killian just shook his head. This was nothing to thank him for. This just made sense.

“What else is a best man for?” he asked and Robin laughed for the first time since he’d walked into the booth that afternoon.

“I knew that title was going to go to your head.”  
  
“Just confirming what I already knew. Is that what you and Regina were angry about? The adoption agent, because if you just need to fill out some more paperwork and get witnesses, it seems like more of a nuisance than anything else.”  
  
“No,” Robin sighed. 

“Then?”  
  
“The agent also said that none of that guarantees she’ll get rights and if she doesn’t get rights she can’t really make choices or anything if there’s some sort of emergency. And you know how much she likes to be in control. I tried to tell her that it didn’t matter, even if it doesn’t go through, Rol loves her enough that he doesn’t need labels or anything, but that didn’t really go over very well. That’s why she was angry.”  
  
Killian nodded knowingly – Regina was not very good at not getting what she wanted. And she wanted her family to be official and legal and willing to give her control in the event of an emergency. 

“Then I’ll just have to be the best character witness in the history of the entire United States court system, huh?” Killian asked, drawing another vaguely entertained laugh out of Robin. 

“We’ll need more than you,” he said, not entirely able to keep the frustration out of his voice. 

“Like?”  
  
“Like two other people and we thought we’d ask Zelena, but maybe someone who’s not _super_ connected to us too?”  
  
“Like someone you’ve never actually met?”  
  
“Think about what you just said for a second,” Robin said, sounding every bit like he was talking to Roland and explaining a mistake his seven-year-old son had just made. Killian tried not to take too much offense to that. “No, it has to be someone we know, but maybe not someone who employs Gina or someone who feeds our entire family. Someone who’s seen Gina with Rol, but isn’t _totally_ connected to us.”  
  
“Like?”  
  
“Like Emma.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You don’t think that’s a good idea?”  
  
Killian wasn’t sure what it was, but he was slightly terrified it seemed like pushing and including her in a quasi-family he wasn’t entirely sure she was ready for. Robin stared nervously at him, foot tapping softly on the wood floor with his arms still crossed tightly over his chest. 

“Did you ask her yet?” Killian asked. 

Robin shook his head. “No and I didn’t tell Gina this was my idea yet either.”  
  
“This was your idea?”   
  
“I think it could be really good. She’s seen Gina and Rol, she’s spent time with them, but not in like a big way and she doesn’t really have any reason to lie to a judge.”   
  
“She wouldn’t do that,” Killian muttered quickly. “And you don’t think there’s some sort of angle there? Like she’s not connected to Roland and Gina because she’s dating me?”   
  
“Is she?” Robin asked, sarcasm practically drowning out his accent entirely. “Who knew? You two haven’t actually  _ defined _ the relationship.”

Killian’s mouth dropped open and Robin looked smug. “Emma isn’t your girlfriend, Uncle Killian?” Roland asked from his spot on the counter. 

“Well?” Robin prompted. Killian huffed out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and shook his head at his friend, walking back towards the counter and pulling Roland down, setting him on his feet and clapping his shoulder lightly. 

“Come on, mate,” he said, ignoring Robin entirely. “Let’s go make mac and cheese. We’re done here.”  
  
“You’ve got to figure it out eventually,” Robin said, following them out the back door and flipping the light off as he went. 

“I’m going to ruin your character.”  
  
“Nah, you’re going to be great. Just make sure to let her know you think of her as your girlfriend before you start talking about how you’ve loved her since you saw her and you absolutely want to spend the rest of your life with her and then a few years from now, I’ll stand up as _your_ character witness and you can adopt her kid.”  
  
Killian’s mouth hung open the entire cab ride back to The Jolly – Roland peppering him with questions about cheese choices and if they could put bacon in it and Robin looked far too pleased with himself. 

It was nearly seven by the time they got back downtown, Roland tearing into the dining room without a thought to the customers that were sitting there as Robin did his best to keep up with him and Killian tried to make sure his kitchen hadn’t fallen off schedule. 

“We all good here?” he asked Eric, moving between stove and counter and back again in the span of four words. 

“Yeah, yeah,” the sous chef answered, running his hands over the front of his apron. “We’re good. Ariel’s doing her best to stagger seating so we can stagger orders and I think Will’s got half your dining room drunk, so  _ that’s _ going well and if you don’t get out of the way you’re going to get burned.”

Eric pulled a pan off the stove - flames jumping off it as he poured wine across the top – and Killian eyed him, reaching behind him to grab his own apron off the bottom shelf. “Oh,” Eric added. “And you may want to go outside before you start making Roland’s mac and cheese.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Emma’s here?”  
  
“What?” he asked, nearly tying the strings of his apron around his prosthetic as Eric grinned at him, flipping down the heat on the stove and leveling him with a gaze that practically screamed some sort of opinion at him. 

“Yeah, she’s been here for awhile.”  
  
“What? How long’s a while?”  
  
“Maybe half an hour,” Eric shrugged. “I don’t know, she’s been talking to Regina. Hasn’t ordered any food yet, though, so, you know, maybe mention that when you go out there.”

Killian groaned, retying the apron strings  _ again _ and actually getting them right that time as he pushed through the door towards the dining room. She was sitting at the bar, turned towards Regina with a drink in her hand and that stupid wedding scrapbook in between them and he sighed loudly as he weaved through the tables. 

It only took her a few seconds to notice him, eyes lifting up and a smile inching across her face slowly. Regina was still talking – focused on something to do with bridesmaids dresses and whether or not she should make Killian expand the appetizer options from six to ten – but Emma’s gaze landed on his as she took a sip of her drink. 

Killian twisted around behind Emma, hand landing on her back and he kissed her without even considering the vaguely disgusted face he was sure Regina was making at being interrupted. “I didn’t know you were out here,” he said softly and Emma’s smile got even bigger. 

“I haven’t been here that long. It’s ok. We’ve been talking wedding plans anyway.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s what I’m worried about.”  
  
“See that’s just rude,” Regina mumbled, slamming the scrapbook shut with a bit more force than absolutely necessary. Killian grinned at her, fingers slipping under the collar of Emma’s shirt and she absolutely leaned into it. 

“Is it ok that I’m here?” she asked, twisting in the chair and glancing up at him. The smile was replaced by nerves and Killian shook his head quickly, determined to get  _ that _ out of the conversation as soon as possible. 

“Of course it is, love,” Killian said. “I’d go so far as to say good.”

“I didn’t know you were doing pop-up stuff today. I could have come there.”  
  
“You don’t have to rationalize it, Swan. You can come here whenever you want.”

“That sounds like an open invitation.”  
  
“Maybe it is.”  
  
Regina groaned loudly, downing the rest of her martini in one quick gulp before shooting them a very pointed glare and pushing away from the bar. “Define your relationship,” she said, refusing to mince words as per usual. “Because this cutesy, banter flirting thing you two are still doing is getting real old, real fast.”  
  
Killian gaped at her, eyes going wide – but he wasn’t sure if it was surprise or frustration or something closer to a red, hot anger that was surging through every single vein and artery he was biologically equipped with. 

“See if I witness for your character now,” he shot at her as Regina turned back towards the booth Robin and Roland had taken up residence in. 

“Oh you’ll do it,” she said, throwing a knowing glance at him over her shoulder. “And so will she.”

Killian sank into the seat Regina had just left, leaning over the bar to grab a bottle of  _ something _ from underneath the other side, Emma’s laugh ringing in his ears and doing a pretty good job of making him forget the wood that was pressed up against his gall bladder. 

“I’m not sure you can actually twist your body that way,” she said, the laughter still hanging on her words. 

“Nah, I got it,” Killian mumbled, fingers barely hanging onto the top of the bottle of whatever he’d managed to grab. He pulled himself back over the bar, gall bladder only a little worse for wear, and shot Emma a grin, earning him a pair of very enthusiastic rolled eyes for his trouble. He put the bottle – vodka,  _ God _ – down on the bar and raised his eyebrows. “See?”

“Incredible,” she said, the sarcasm nearly reaching out and slapping him across the face. He tilted the bottle towards her eyeing the half-full glass still clutched in her hand, thumb trailing along the condensation on the side. “Ah, no,” Emma laughed, shaking her head. “Somehow I don’t think vodka before ten o’clock is socially acceptable.”

“I don’t think I can hang over the side of the bar again, Swan.”  
  
She clicked her tongue, putting the glass down on the bar and leaning towards him almost instinctively, hand resting on his knee. “You might just have to do this one sober then.”  
  
Killian sighed, rolling his eyes, but he put his hand over hers and squeezed lightly and she didn’t move – that seemed like a good sign. “What did Regina mean?” he asked. 

“About defining the relationship or about you threatening to not witness for her character?”

“The second one. We’ll talk about the other one in a second.”  
  
Emma raised her eyebrows – pulling her hand away and that probably shouldn’t have made his stomach heave the way it did. “That so?”  
  
“Answer the question, Swan.”  
  
“But there are so many of them.”  
  
“There were two. And we’ve already established a schedule for both of them.”

She laughed softly, closing her eyes for a moment and leaning forward again and he couldn’t have stopped himself from meeting her halfway and kissing her if he tried. He didn’t really try. “See, now that’s a distraction,” Emma mumbled against his mouth. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, not meaning a single letter. 

Emma hummed – a disbelieving sound that made Killian wonder if he’d be able to somehow get her away from this bar and into the hallway or maybe even upstairs. Anywhere that didn’t include customers and hostesses and producers with very pointed opinions and very keen eyes. 

“Liar,” she muttered. 

“Absolutely.”   
  
“I came here and you weren’t here and Regina was here and she was already drinking and that got me drinking and, somehow, I’m not really even sure, we started talking about her and Robin and Roland and she told me about what happened today. For the record, she didn’t ask.”   
  
That caught him by surprise – he figured Regina not only asked, but pointed out all the things she could do if Emma  _ didn’t  _ serve as some sort of character witness. Killian was leaning towards her still, hand half reaching out towards her leg and the dress that she had on – she must have come straight from the network – and Emma’s face was flush with the nerves she was almost certainly feeling at the suddenly blurred lines between business and the show and this still undefined  _ whatever. _

“You don’t have to do it, if you don’t want to,” he muttered. “They’ve got me and Robin said they were going to ask Zelena too.”  
  
“I know,” Emma said with a certainty that took him off guard and made him reconsider his exit strategy to the apartment upstairs. “Did you miss the part where I said she didn’t ask? I wanted to. I can do this.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Why would you want to?”  
  
Emma sat up straighter, heels landing on the small bar at the bottom of the chair so her knees were pulled up towards her slightly. And then she looked like kind of disappointed. “They’re important to you,” she said softly, eyes falling down towards the floor. 

“Come with me,” Killian said suddenly, grabbing her hand and all but pulling her off the chair. She let out a small huff, nearly tripping over her heels as she followed him down the hallway and back towards the kitchen and the door in the corner you could only notice if you were really looking for it. 

Eric yelled out something to him, but Killian brushed him off, swinging open the door and keeping his hand firmly wrapped around Emma’s. She didn’t ask any more questions, just followed him upstairs and through the door that he probably should have locked before he left that afternoon, skidding to a stop just inside his apartment. 

Her eyes went wide and she pushed her hair behind her ears with both hands – pulling her fingers away from his to do so. Killian turned quickly, trying to regulate his breathing and the pulse he could feel pounding in his ear. 

It wasn’t a very big apartment – it wasn’t Emma’s two bedroom or even the loft Mary Margaret and David lived in – but it was  _ his _ and he wasn’t entirely positive he’d ever brought anyone up here that didn’t have Locksley or Mills as a last name. 

It felt like  _ something  _ – some kind of meaningful moment when Emma’s eyes landed on a the picture frames Regina had decreed had to be there, pictures of Roland’s third birthday party and kindergarten graduation, the first good review he’d gotten at The Jolly and a decades-old photo of him and Liam at his Academy graduation, dress whites so pressed they probably could have cut something if you hit them the right way. 

Emma didn’t say a word – just walked towards  _ that  _ photo with a very specific look on her face and slightly narrowed eyes and when she brushed her index finger over the side of the frame, Killian thought about actually telling her he loved her right there. 

That would have been overwhelming. 

It was already pretty overwhelming. 

“I’m glad you wanted to,” he said softly, Emma’s head snapping around at the sound of his voice in the otherwise silent apartment. 

She raised her eyebrows at him, smile tugging on the corner of her mouth and nodded slowly. “I did.”  
  
“And you came here. On your own. To tell me something.”  
  
“More like ask.”

He should sit down. He should tell her to sit down. He didn’t do either. They both stood there, respective hands pushed into respective pockets and stared at each other like they were walking on some sort of metaphorical knife edge. 

“You can ask me anything, Swan,” he said and maybe he meant it. He definitely meant it. 

“Yeah?”   
  
“Yeah.”   
  
Emma took a deep breath, pressing her lips together tightly as she took a slightly nervous step towards him. She reached out slowly and Killian didn’t think twice about threading his fingers with hers – like he couldn’t bring himself  _ not _ to keep touching her in the middle of his living room. God, she was in the middle of his living room. 

“I think you should come on my show,” she said, no hint of hesitation or nerves in her voice. Just a statement and a brand-new set of blurred lines and Killian’s eyes went wide before he could stop them, heart thudding in his chest like some sort of weird metronome. 

“That’s not a question,” he pointed out. 

“The question is whether or not you’d want to. Would you? Want to? We’re filming the Christmas episode the day after tomorrow and I know it’s late notice, but I think it could help. And before you make some sort of vaguely sarcastic quip about how this is just me using you for your good looks and ratings pull, that’s exactly what I’m doing. But also it could be kind of fun and you can bake whatever you want, just make it festive…”

He cut her off – with his mouth. 

Emma gasped softly and Killian filed  _ that  _ sound away in the back of his mind so it was seared into his memory for the rest of his foreseeable life before bending down slightly, so he could lift her up to meet him easier. She didn’t stop kissing him as he moved or she moved or they moved as some weird, collective unit. 

She wrapped her arms around his neck, fingers ghosting above Killian’s hair and he needed them somewhere else because if he didn’t sit down he was liable to fall over. There was a couch in this apartment – he needed to get to the couch. 

Emma’s heels fell off – the noise not doing much to deter them from their current focus – as he turned them around on the spot, not certain he was capable of walking backwards. Her hands fell away from his neck when they moved, dropping down to grip the front of his shirt and tugging – making her intentions very clear. 

She’d asked him to be on her show. 

Like he was part of her life. 

He wanted to be part of her life. 

He wasn’t sure how this had happened – Emma Swan was laying on his couch, hands still threatening to rip his shirt in half with how tightly she was holding the fabric and, somehow, she’d managed to find her way into every single crack in his life. She thought he was a  _ hero _ , someone important and good and maybe she was right. 

He was glad she was there. 

He didn’t want her to ever leave. 

That kind of thing sounds vaguely overwhelming when said out loud though – particularly when they were both far too preoccupied with making out on the couch like teenagers. 

“No, no, my jacket,” Emma muttered, leaning up to try and take it off. 

Killian just shook his head, hand pushing aside the leather that was twisted underneath his body. “No, no, it’s fine,” he said, trying to rest most of his weight on his forearms. That, however, was proving more difficult than normal, particularly when Emma had her leg wrapped around his calf. 

“Yeah?” she asked, teeth tugging on her lower lip as her eyes flashed up towards him. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Killian mumbled, voice shaking a bit when Emma’s hand trailed along the top of his jeans. “I like the red leather jacket.”

Emma laughed again – and maybe he should be making some kind of list of all the different ways she could make him lose his entire train of thought and cognizant reasoning with a single sounds, but he was far too focused on getting her to make that noise from before again. 

And they were too good at this to think about anything else. 

Her hips jutted up and met his and Killian was positive his eyes rolled back and Emma hissed in her breath and maybe they should have moved out of the living room. 

Or maybe he should live in an apartment that wasn’t connected to his restaurant and a very impatient staff and a slightly stressed out sous chef. 

“Killian,” Eric yelled, banging on the door. “You’ve got to come back downstairs. We’re barely keeping up down here and you promised mac and cheese. Roland nearly ran into the kitchen just now, so, you know, Regina’s losing her mind.”  
  
He banged on the door again, sounding like he was kicking it for good measure and Killian groaned loudly – but that might have been because Emma’s fingers had found their way underneath the top of his jeans. 

“Fuck,” he mumbled and she smirked up at him, a flash of green eyes and hair across her forehead. 

“You promised mac and cheese?” she asked, voice shooting through his whole body like a hot wire. Eric kicked the door again. 

“Roland asked while we were at the pop-up.”

Emma grinned at him – like he was some sort of  _ good guy _ – and it sounded like Eric was using his entire body as some sort of battering ram at this point, trying to bring down the door with the strength of his shoulder and the sheer will of his frustration. Killian groaned again, rolling his eyes as he unwillingly pulled himself away from Emma, crossing the apartment in five steps and swinging the door open. 

Eric took a step back, jaw dropping at the glare he was being met with. “What?” Killian asked, trying to keep the edge out of his voice. The sous chef widened his eyes, gaze landing over Killian’s shoulder on Emma – who had sat up at this point, tugging her hair over her shoulder and trying to readjust her jacket. 

“Roland tried to make his own macaroni and cheese,” Eric muttered.

“I’ll be down in five minutes.”  
  
Eric raised his eyebrows at him, very clearly doing his best not to smile at Killian as he nodded. “Ok.”  
  
“Ok.”  
  
Eric nodded again and turned on his heels and it almost sounded like he was laughing when he walked back down the stairs to the kitchen. Killian turned back towards Emma – now off the couch and putting her shoes back on – and tried not to sigh as he leaned against the doorframe. 

“Where’s Henry?” Killian asked, the question dawning on him suddenly and he silently chastised himself for not realizing he wasn’t there to begin with. 

“Studying at a friend’s house,” Emma said, walking towards him and pulling on the side of her dress as she moved. 

“The Halloween friend?”  
  
She blinked once – like she couldn’t believe he remembered things – and nodded. “Violet.”  
  
“A girl?”  
  
“A girl,” she said, exhaling loudly. “Shouldn’t girls still have cooties at this point? I mean he’s only twelve. And he’d probably tell me, right? If this was a _thing?_ ”  
  
“A thing?”

“Like if he liked her.”  
  
“You want to hear what you  _ want  _ to hear or you want to hear the truth from someone who was actually a twelve-year-old boy at one point?”  Emma sighed, resting her head on Killian’s shoulder and his hand wrapped around her waist quickly. He kissed the top of her head, laughing slightly against her hair. “She doesn’t have cooties, love,” he said. 

“Yeah, I figured.”  
  
“That’s not a bad thing.”  
  
“It might be the most terrifying thing in the entire world.” He laughed again and felt her relax against him. “You mind if I stick around for a little while? I’m not supposed to pick Henry up until nine and I don’t know that there’s actually any food in my refrigerator.”  
  
“You’re a chef, Swan.”  
  
“And a very irresponsible grocery shopper.”

“I’d love for you to stay,” he said, trying not to linger too long on any particularly overwhelming words. “Of course.”   
  
“I mostly really like mac and cheese.”   
  
“Using me for my good looks and ratings draw  _ plus _ my mac and cheese. Bad form, love. You’re going to make me think you’re not interested at all.”

She pulled away slightly, leaning back to look at him. “I could prove otherwise, but rumor has it you’ve got a very impatient seven-year-old to deal with downstairs and I don’t want Regina to kill you before you get to film the Christmas episode.”

His mouth hung open slightly and Emma pressed herself up on her toes, kissing him quickly before walking back downstairs without another word. 

She brought Henry for mac and cheese the next night. 

* * *

Emma was sitting on the edge of the counter in her studio kitchen when he walked in - two days removed from the couch incident and the night after Henry came up with at least a dozen adjectives to describe the mac and cheese Killian had made them. She smiled when she heard him and he kept his steps slow, trying not to add another notch to the seemingly endless lists of places they’d made out across the network building.

“Hey,” she said, hopping down quickly and turning towards him. She met him in three quick steps, hands landing on the front of his shirt as she brushed her lips against his. “You ready to go?”

“I’m all hair and make-up’ed and ready to be used as your ratings prop, love,” he said as Emma rolled her eyes. 

“Alright, well, if you two are done being adorable, we’ll get ready to shoot,” Ruby mumbled, appearing, seemingly out of nowhere with a sarcastic smile on her bright red lips. “El, you ready to go?”  
  
“Absolutely,” cried another voice from behind a camera and Emma tugged Killian farther onto the set, positioning him on an ‘x’ of scotch tape behind the counter she’d just been sitting on. 

And if she thought he ran his restaurant like some sort of Naval ship, she ran her show like some sort of military platoon – everyone barking out orders and marks with bowls and plates and five very expensive knives sitting in a perfect row in front of them. 

They’d gone over the schedule the night before – get to the network by eleven, hair and makeup, on set by twelve. The already well-themed studio kitchen was, somehow, even more decorated for their Christmas episode, draped in greenery and fairy lights and Emma was wearing another red dress that was far too distracting for what they were trying to accomplish. 

Good ratings. 

She’d made that very clear. 

He was there to bring in ratings and one baked good and banter. 

The holiday promos they’d filmed the month before had done their jobs – both Regina and Ruby were having the time of their lives gloating over that – and the Thanksgiving episode of Chopped had done even better than Cutthroat Kitchen.

So – according to Regina and Ruby and Emma – this just made sense. They’d get Killian on her Christmas show, drive up those promos and her ratings and, with any luck, she’d have her timeslot back by the start of the new year. 

It was a good idea. It made sense. And he could hit his marks and cook on camera. He’d have a bit more trouble, however, hitting marks and cooking on camera without visibly looking like he wasn’t trying to come up with all the places he could find on set to kiss Emma Swan. 

He was doing that already. 

“Now,” the voice behind the camera commanded and Emma’s entire body shifted. Her shoulders straightened and he was positive her spine extended or she, somehow, got taller and softer and her eyes did something  _ ridiculous _ all at the same time. And Killian must have looked as stunned as he felt because it took five seconds for the voice to yell  _ nope _ and Ruby to march onto the set with a murderous look on her face.

“What happened?” Emma asked, glancing questioningly towards Killian. 

“Your boyfriend screwed up our first take,” Ruby spat. 

“What? How? It was two seconds.”   
  
“Because El said now and you turned on  _ TV Emma _ and he,” she nodded angrily at Killian, “looked like you were the goddamn sun or something ridiculous. Don’t do that again Killian. We can’t use the takes when you look at Emma like you’ve just made out with her. We want the banter and the  _ tension. _  No one’s turning in to actually see how in love you are with each other.”

Emma let out a shaky laugh and Killian glared at Ruby, running his hand through his hair as he rocked back and forth on his feet. “You got it?” the producer asked, seemingly asking both of them. 

“Got it,” Emma muttered. 

“Yup,” Killian added. 

Ruby nodded once – eyes like slits when she looked at them – before turning back out of frame and disappearing into one of the corners that Killian wanted to kiss Emma in. 

El – if that was her name – yelled  _ now _ again and Emma fell back into her on-camera personality and Killian did his best to keep his face impassive. Because Ruby had been right. He had looked at her like she was  _ the goddamn sun  _ and it wasn’t nearly as ridiculous as Ruby made it sound. 

Emma was in her element – moving around the overly decorated kitchen with ease like it was second nature to be on set or in front of cameras. She explained everything – how she was cooking and  _ what _ she was cooking and they bantered appropriately while they moved around each other, Emma only letting him do a minimal amount of vegetable chopping while she talked about the main course. 

“Consider it payback,” she said with a smile and a flash of green eyes and he wondered if they weren’t on camera anymore. They were. “For only letting me chop vegetables at The Jolly Roger.”  
  
“That wasn’t because of a lack of trust, Swan,” he said slowly, keeping his eyes on the knife in his hand so he didn’t stab himself. “That was because I wasn’t interested in putting you to work while you were supposed to be eating at my restaurant.”  
  
Emma shrugged. “Maybe you’re just threatened by my superior chopping skills.”

“That’s absolutely it.”  
  
“I figured.”

They made pot roast –  or  beef à la mode. She’d called it beef à la mode, mouth wrapping around the letters with an accent that made Killian’s knees go weak and he had to bite his tongue again.  “Everyone makes turkey on Thanksgiving and Christmas,” Emma explained to the camera, “and we don’t want to be everyone. We want to be a little less boring,” – and half a dozen vegetables and Killian was tasked with coming up with some kind of themed drink and dessert. 

He absolutely hadn’t spent the better part of the night before – after she and Henry had left The Jolly and the kitchen was cleaned and Regina shot him a look that all but screamed  _ define _ at him – trying to figure out what he’d make. That would have been ridiculous. It wasn’t as if he was trying to impress her anymore. 

He’d done that already. 

At least he’d thought he’d done that. And she wanted him on her show. 

And pecan pie wasn’t  _ that _ big of a deal. Killian had rationalized that at about three in the morning. It was just one of the first desserts he’d learned to make – even before he decided this whole food thing as a career was something he’d been interested in. 

He still had the handwritten index card, tucked in a tiny box of things that moved from every single apartment he’d ever lived in – much like the alarm clock – the ink slightly faded now, but he could still see it was his mother’s even just glancing at it, like the letters and the strokes were burned into his memory somehow. 

He could probably smell the stupid pecan pie too if he thought about it – baking in that tiny oven in that tiny apartment before the world had imploded. Liam kept making it – in the next tiny oven and tiny apartment and every year, somehow, on Christmas they had it in some way, even if that meant eating pecans out of a can on a ship in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. 

That had happened once. The Christmas before Liam died. 

He hadn’t made it sense. 

It didn’t mean anything. 

Killian could feel Emma’s eyes on him, the questioning look in her gaze and the tilt of her head. She couldn’t say anything – the camera pointed directly at them no more obvious than it was at that very moment – but her eyes narrowed a fraction of an inch and the side of her mouth ticked up and maybe it meant something. 

He grinned at her, turning to raise his eyebrows quickly while she stared at him from her spot next to the counter and the only proof she had actually sighed came with the small movement of her shoulders. 

“Seems like you got most of the meal responsibility, Swan,” he said, pulling the pie out of the oven. “Sticking me with the side shows.”

“Well, it is my show,” Emma pointed out, reaching out to grab a pecan off the top of the pie – the one thing they’d actually cooked during the show. Everything else got made in a prep kitchen before filming started. All they did was mix things on camera. “And people care a lot about dessert and alcohol.”  
  
“You’re going to burn yourself.” She just shrugged, turning back towards the camera and explaining how to time everything so you could get your main course out with enough time that baking the pie was just a simple transition of food into the still-hot oven. 

And he was more than just impressed. 

He was bordering a bit on awe. 

Because if this was  _ Emma _ – really Emma – the one willing to serve as a character witness for his friends and bring her son to his restaurant again and have him on her show and steal pecans off the top of his pie, she might be more than even Killian thought she was. She might be everything. 

_ Like she was the goddamn sun. _

He was treading towards lost in his own thoughts territory, but Emma asked about the drink he’d come up with and they were still on camera and it only took him one deep breath for Killian to fall back into  _ TV mode, _  heading back to his mark and launching into an explanation of hot-buttered rum.

“You’re awfully focused on sweet in your side shows aren’t you?” Emma asked, eyes flashing towards him as she pushed the pre-made drink towards him. 

Killian hummed in response, fingers wrapping around the glass as he smirked up at her. They were still on camera. “Some people like that when they’re considering dessert,” he countered. “And you’ve got to have your drink match your dessert. That’s only proper.”  
  
“Ah, we’re proper now?”  
  
“It’s your show, love, you tell me.”

She blinked once when he called her _love_ – he hadn’t even realized he’d done it at first, far too comfortable in this land of flirting, banter that might actually be the foundation of their entire relationship. But it only took Emma half a second to get refocused, making a face at him and nodding. “It is my show, but I suppose they’re _your_ desserts and there are rules about guests and letting you do what you want or something.”  
  
“I’ll take the something.”  
  
Emma rolled her eyes, grabbing her own glass and tilting it towards him. “For good luck?” she asked and someone made a soft noise out of frame. Ruby was audibly groaning at them now. While they were still filming. 

“Absolutely,” Killian muttered, clinking the edge of his glass against hers and biting his tongue until he tasted blood, a vaguely drastic measure that was all but necessary to make sure he didn’t kiss her while they were still on set. 

She grinned at him, taking a sip of the drink and turning back to the camera, running through her outro in one take. If they didn’t give her the timeslot back, Killian would march into Zelena’s office and demand it. 

Emma was absurdly good at what she did. 

“And that’s it,” El yelled, leaning around the camera to smile at both of them. “I don’t know that we’ve ever run through a show that well. That was like other levels of perfect.”

Killian grinned at Emma, eyes darting towards hers as he bumped his shoulder against her side. “You’ll be syndicated after this one, love,” he said. “And no need to thank me here. I’ll come up with something really good to pay me back for my ratings draw.”  
  
Emma rolled her eyes, but didn’t move away from him, hand tracing over the top of his brace seemingly without thinking about it and Ruby groaned again. “You’re both the ratings draw,” she sighed, leaning her forearms on the counter and grabbing a piece of stuffing out of the bowl. “As a unit. That’s why you’re here Killian.”  
He pursed his lips. “Thanks for putting me in my place so effectively, Ruby.”  
  
“Whenever I can.” She glanced at Emma, face softening just a bit. “You want to do the intro for the commercial real quick? We might as well since we’re here.”

“Sure,” Emma shrugged. “You ok to stay for a couple of minutes?” she asked, head turned towards Killian when she spoke.   
  
“I can wait,” he said – and it felt like a bigger sentence than three words. 

She seemed to pick up on that, biting her lip quickly before following Ruby towards the other side of the well-decorated studio, leaving Killian alone with an absurd amount of holiday-themed food and two glasses of rum. 

He grabbed one, leaning against the counter, sipping on the drink, trying not to let Ruby’s words linger in his head too long. She’d said  _ boyfriend _ and it all felt a little middle school and maybe Henry should be giving them tips on this relationship, but he wanted – still. Maybe even more than he had when he first met her. 

Absolutely more than when he had first met her. 

He didn’t hear Emma come back – too caught up in his own thoughts and labels to be aware of the squeaking that all but announced her arrival – only realizing she was there when her hand landed on the back of his neck and started toying with his hair. 

“Thank you,” she said softly. 

“For?”  
  
“This,” she said, nodding towards the food behind them and the drink in his hand. “For being a ratings prop and a very good one, I might add.” She grabbed a fork – from God knew where – pulling the entire pie plate across the counter towards her and digging into it while Killian watched her. “This is really good,” she mumbled. “I shouldn’t even be surprised at this point.” 

“I can’t understand a single word you’re saying, Swan,” he said, not quite able to keep the laughter out of his voice as she leaned against the counter, propping the pie in one hand and gripping the fork tightly in the other. She made a face at him. “And you don’t have to thank me for that, love. I wanted to and if it can help you get your timeslot back, then I’d film several holiday-themed episodes for you.”  
  
She gaped at him, eyes wide with something that looked like disbelief and a veritable pool of emotions. Killian took a deep breath, putting the drink back down on the counter and turning so Emma was between him and the food. 

“You called me that on camera,” she whispered. 

His shoulders sagged and he felt himself leaning towards her, forehead just inches away from hers. “Force of habit,” he muttered. “I’m sorry about that.”  
  
“Don’t be.”  
  
“What?”

He lifted his head up, eyes meeting hers and they could have been in the middle of the desert for how much attention they were paying to the rest of the crew around them. Emma smiled softly and Killian felt something akin to  _ hope _ shoot through his entire system, hand coming up trail along her jaw and into her hair. 

“Don’t be,” Emma repeated. “It was kind of nice, actually.”  
  
“That so?”

“Well, Ruby did call you my boyfriend.”  
  
His jaw actually hurt he was grinning so wide and Emma’s entire top row of teeth were pushed into her lip tightly. She moved them when he kissed her. 

Well, they had lasted through filming – that seemed like some kind of victory. 

Ruby groaned loudly again and Killian didn’t care and Emma rolled her hips against his, hands buried in the back of his hair and they had defined the relationship. 

Fucking finally. 

“So,” she said slowly, dragging her mouth away from his. “That’s ok, then?”  
  
Killian nodded. “It was kind of nice, actually,” he said, repeating her words back to her and Emma’s whole body folded against his as he wrapped his arms tightly around her waist. 

Ruby’s heels clicked behind him and Killian didn’t turn around when she started talking, too focused on the way Emma felt against him. “When people ask,” she said,  “I’m going to take all the credit for this. Just so we’re clear on that point.”  
  
“Regina might fight you on that one,” Killian said. “She demanded a definition two days ago.”  
  
“Yeah, but I actually said the word,” Ruby pointed out. “That’s got to count for something.” Emma hummed in agreement, the sound of it vibrating against Killian’s body and he tightened his grip on her waist slightly as she leaned around him to glance at her producer. 

“You can take all the credit you want, Rubes,” she said and he could  _ hear _ the smile in her voice. 

“I’m absolutely going to. So, that’s that then? We’ve finally stopped beating around the relationship bush? We can stop doing this walking on eggshells thing?”  
  
Emma slid out of his arms, moving to his side and throwing a questioning look Killian’s way. “What do you think?” she asked. “We done beating around some metaphorical bush?”

“I think so, love,” Killian agreed and Emma beamed at him. 

Ruby made some sort of noise – it wasn’t a groan, it might have actually been closer to a squeal. She was smiling, eyes flashing between Killian and Emma and maybe she should get some credit for all of this.

“Good,” she said, like that decided it all. 

“Good,” Emma repeated, lacing her hand through Killian’s and tugging him towards the door of the studio. “Come on, if I don’t get some of this makeup off it might actually sink into my bloodstream.”  
  
“What a delightful picture,” Ruby laughed. “Good first step in the relationship.”

“I don’t think you have anything to worry about, Swan,” Killian said, arm draping over her shoulders as he followed her out into the hallway. She glanced back at him, that same disbelief flashing in her eyes before it settled into belief. 

He hoped it was belief. And maybe a little bit of trust. 

“Good,” she said again, brushing her lips across his quickly before walking into the makeup room and falling into one of the chairs. 

_ Like she was the goddamn sun. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. Hi. Hey there. Relationship definitions are the best. I sang that last part. Because I can and I loved writing this chapter and I love you guys and the response to this fic continues to overwhelm me on a pretty much daily basis. 
> 
> As always, I cannot thank you enough for every click, comment and kudos and @laurnorder is just every wonderful adjective combined and then, like, a rainbow or something. 
> 
> Come hang out on Tumblr! welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	22. Chapter 22

Mary Margaret was beside herself.

“You actually used the word boyfriend?” she said for, at least, the third time in the last hour. She’d asked the same question, at least, six times once a day, every day since Emma had told her about _that_ conversation a week ago.

“Well, technically Ruby said it,” Emma said, sinking into the corner of the couch with a smile on her face. “But, you know, the sentiment was the same. There was a definition and some kind of discussion and it’s all really good.”

Mary Margaret turned towards her, the smile on her face disappearing when she saw where Emma was, practically screaming at the movement, eyes going wide and a jaw-dropping expression that made her wonder if maybe she’d actually sat on some small child she didn’t realize was on the couch.

“What’s your deal?” Emma asked Mary Margaret, own eyes going wide as she practically leapt back off the cushion.

“You’re going to wrinkle your dress!” Emma twisted her lips – slightly manic laugh bubbling out of her without her consent. Mary Margaret looked at her like she was crazy. “What are you laughing about?”  
  
“I can’t believe that’s what you’re worried about. I thought I’d killed something.”  
  
“You killed something on your couch?”  
  
“You were screaming like I had.”  
  
“I’m worried about your dress.”  
  
“I’m sure my dress appreciates the concern.”  
  
Mary Margaret shook her head, hand pressing into the small of her back as she stared at her expectantly. She grinned, taking a step towards Emma and reaching out to softly flatten her hand over the very obvious wrinkles caused by slumping into the corner of the living room couch. Emma felt her breath catch in throat at the movement – simple as it was – and the smile on Mary Margaret’s face seemed to settle into every ventricle in her heart.

“I’m worried about you too, you know,” Mary Margaret muttered, hand ghosting over Emma’s shoulders and the curls they’d just spent the better part of the last hour pinning into the back of her head. She’d probably set off a metal detector with the number of bobby pins stuck into her skull.

“I know you are. I’m happy though.”  
  
“Yeah?

“We made out on his couch. It was, uh, enthusiastic.”  
  
Mary Margaret blinked – and  then blinked again. “Was this before or after the boyfriend definition?”  
  
“That seems awfully middle school doesn’t it?”  
  
“Emma…”  
  
“Before. After I asked him to be on my show.”

Mary Margaret’s answering smile was so bright it probably could have served as the one traffic light in all of Storybrooke. “Maybe I don’t need to be as worried as I was.”  
  
“Because we made out on his couch?”

“Because you made out on his couch _after_ you asked him to be on your show and before the boyfriend-girlfriend conversation and, most importantly, making out on his couch means one thing. You were in his apartment.”  
  
“He lives above The Jolly.”  
  
“Seems like a bit of a cliché.”  
  
“It is.”  
  
Mary Margaret laughed loudly, the sound shaking through her entire body. “Emma Swan has a boyfriend,” she muttered, like she almost couldn’t believe it. “You going to update your Facebook status? Oh, God! Is he coming here to pick you up? We have to take pictures. Ruth will want to see pictures.”  
  
Emma’s mouth hung open – but she wasn’t quite sure if she was more surprised or entertained. She was leaning more towards entertained. It was because she was so goddamn happy.

In the grand scheme of things, having a boyfriend for a week without any sort of complications shouldn’t seem like much of an accomplishment, but in the grand scheme of _Emma Swan,_  having a boyfriend for even a few hours was one of the more impressive things she’d ever done. She deserved some sort of medal or something for the last week.

She hadn’t freaked out, hadn’t run away, had settled into girlfriend mode with an ease that almost made her want to do both of those things, but then Killian would look at her or help Henry with his homework at the bar at The Jolly or run his his fingers over the back of her neck and she didn’t move an inch.

Emma Swan was firmly entrenched in girlfriend.

And she was happy.

“He’s not coming here,” she said, answering Mary Margaret’s question after a few prolonged moments of introspective silence. “He can’t.”  
  
“What? Why? That’s dumb.”   
  
“That’s a very pointed opinion.” Mary Margaret shrugged. “They’re sending us both separate cars. It’s a network party, M’s.”   
  
“So?”   
  
“So,” Emma repeated forcefully, “we’re trying to be a bit under the radar on this one.”   
  
“You should have worn a different dress then.”   
  
Emma rolled her eyes, glancing down at the Ruby-provided dress she’d been instructed to wear two days before. She’d put up a very small fight – it was _very_ red – but it fit absurdly well and there was lace on the back and the skirt was full and she liked it. She wasn’t a huge fan, however, of how it also managed to show off the necklace she never took off, silently dreading the moment she’d have to explain that to someone who was bound to ask.

Or how she’d have to explain that to Killian.

Who was bound to ask.

“You didn’t take it off,” Mary Margaret said, not needing to get any more specific. Her eyes were trained on the necklace – the small circular pendant with a swan in the middle that Emma hadn’t taken off in nearly thirteen years. Except for that eight months in prison. They don’t let you wear jewelry in prison.

Emma sighed, teeth pressing into the inside of her lip as she shrugged slightly. “I haven’t in forever.”  
  
“Someone’s going to ask.”  
  
“You already did.”  
  
“Killian will probably ask.”  
  
“Probably.”  
  
“And what’ll you tell him?”  
  
“That it’s an old necklace and I don’t take it off. That’s almost the entire truth.” Mary Margaret leveled a very specific type of stare at her, crossing her arm over her now obvious stomach. “You look like a mom,” Emma laughed.

“I am.”  
  
“Not mine.”  
  
“Let’s go back to the part of the conversation where I told you I was worried about you.” Emma laughed again, fingers ghosting over the necklace. “Have you told him about Neal? Like _really_ told him? Everything?”  
  
“You and David and Ruby are the only ones who know that.”

“He’s going to ask, Emma.”  
  
“And I already told you what I’d say. I’ve got a plan, M’s.”  
  
A plan that she might have only just come up with that did not include discussing thirteen years worth of emotional scars and necklaces made out of stolen keychains that she now never took off to remind herself that everyone would, eventually, leave.

That was kind of macabre for a network-sponsored Christmas party.

And she certainly wasn’t going to tell him the rest about Neal. He knew the most of it – she’d rationalized this _particular_ aspect of the plan since they’d fallen into boyfriend-girlfriend territory a week ago. He knew Neal wasn’t around. He knew Neal wouldn’t be around. He didn’t need to know that Neal had gotten her sent to jail.

No one needed to know that.

Especially not someone at the network – even if that someone was very good at making out on his living room couch. Because if one person knew then _everyone_ could know and Emma couldn’t risk that, couldn’t bring herself to trust him like that.

Not yet.

Mary Margaret dropped into the corner of the couch Emma had leapt out of a few minutes before – not concerned with the status of her own potentially wrinkled clothes – and that mom look hadn’t left her face yet.

“You should send some pictures to Ruth before you go,” she said and Emma couldn’t stop herself from smiling at her – thankful they had dropped the subject without much of a fight. “And David and Henry. They’ll want to see.”  
  
The two of them had left hours ago – not all that interested in watching Mary Margaret curl Emma’s hair – heading uptown for some sort of uncle-nephew bonding that likely included more sugar than Emma would have allowed if they’d stayed here.

That was absolutely the reason they’d left.

“You think?” she asked.

“Come on, we’ll take it together, I know you freak out when you’re in pictures by yourself,” Mary Margaret said, pushing herself off the couch and grabbing Emma’s phone off the coffee table. “You know you’d think you’d be better at this by now after all those promotional shoots and forced commercial readings.”  
  
“I haven’t done one of those with just me in the frames in months,” Emma mumbled, sliding next to Mary Margaret and looking up into the camera in front of her.

“Seems to make under the radar a bit redundant doesn’t it?” Mary Margaret asked. “Smile.”

Emma did as instructed, heard the camera snap and Mary Margaret handed her the phone back. It didn’t look bad. In fact, it looked really good. That dress fit really well. And showed off the necklace. A lot.

“You know not many people actually _know,_ ” Emma argued, texting out to the photo to all the predetermined numbers and recipients. “At least not at the network. Just Ruby and Regina. Oh and I guess Robin, but I don’t know if I count him as network-network. More like an extension of Regina who spends some time at the network. Everyone else thinks we’re just doing this flirting thing for the cameras.”   
  
Mary Margaret shook her head, smile pulling at the side of her mouth as the buzzer from downstairs sounded, signaling the arrival of her network-provided ride uptown. Her phone buzzed as well, vibrating in her hand with return messages, likely chock-full of appropriate _you look great_ sentiments and, maybe, something else that made Emma’s stomach flip and wonder how well she could stick to under the radar that night.

“Remember, you don’t have to be home at any particular time tonight,” Mary Margaret said and, God, she sounded like a mom now. “Henry’s staying with us and tomorrow’s Saturday so you don’t have to worry about school. So get a lot to drink and you know...a lot of other stuff too.”  
  
“A lot of other stuff too?” Emma asked, bordering on hysterical at the expectant look on Mary Margaret’s face.

“Maybe there’s a couch at this party you can make out at.”  
  
“Mary Margaret! Under the radar. We are under the radar.”

The door buzzed again and Mary Margaret widened her eyes, but Emma’s head was spinning. “I’m just saying,” she continued, seemingly unperturbed by her suggestion. “Or, you know, you could go back to the living room couch. And the bedroom bed or whatever.”  
  
“Oh my God.”  
  
“Henry’s staying with us. You don’t have any other commitments. You used the word boyfriend!”

Emma’s eyes were practically falling out of her head and her dress would _absolutely_ get wrinkled if she fell on the floor. She gripped the door handle tightly, twisting it quickly in her hand. “I’ve got to go,” she muttered. “I will see you tomorrow.”  
  
“Have fun!”  
  
She made it downstairs without tripping over her feet or wrinkling her dress or even letting a curl get so much as an inch out of place and slide into the backseat of the car with a quick nod towards the driver, apologizing for the wait. He hummed in agreement, closing the door shut behind her and walking back around the car to head uptown.

They must have set some kind of record – coming to a stop on 55th Street only twenty minutes after they’d pulled away from her apartment and _God_ this building was overwhelming. There were people filing in and cars pulling up and away and Emma’s eyes fell on the door of the building – gaze landing on the way he leaned against the building, the casual certainty he just seemed to exude and the phone gripped tightly in his hand like he was waiting for some kind of response.

He was waiting for her to respond.

Because she hadn’t responded.

“We’re here Ms. Swan,” the driver said, as if she couldn’t see the entire Waldorf Astoria in front of her like some sort of enormous billboard. “There’ll be cars out front later whenever you want to leave, so you don’t have to worry about hailing a cab.”

“Yeah, yeah, thank you,” she said, swinging open the door and practically falling onto the sidewalk. That would have wrinkled her dress.

She’d barely shut the door before the car was gone and Emma fell into the line walking into the building, tugging her jacket a bit tighter in front of her. It was starting to snow. And she didn’t make it five feet before she could feel Killian’s eyes on her.

He moved down the steps – seemingly unconcerned with ice or snow or wrinkling his very well-fitting pants – the smile on his face making Emma forget about the cold almost immediately. “You should get Henry to give you some instructions in texting, Swan,” he muttered, hand slipping into hers with practiced ease. “He would have answered much quicker.”  
  
“Ah, well, I wasn’t really supposed to be texting you to begin with. That picture was mostly meant for Ruth and my brother.”  
  
“That would explain the Mary Margaret addition. I’ll admit I was slightly confused by that.”  
  
“Now you know.”  
  
He made a noise that sounded vaguely like agreement and Emma tried to pull her hand away without actually saying anything – his fingers tightened. “What are you doing?” he asked, glancing to his right to look at her speculatively.

And she might as well have been standing in a sauna for all the heat in that particular gaze.

“I thought we agreed on not parading this around.”  
  
They hadn’t really.

In fact, they hadn’t been in the same network-sponsored environment since they’d made out on her set and decided they were actually allowed to call each other boyfriend and girlfriend. Emma had mostly had this conversation with herself – worrying over the annual holiday party and what all of that _meant_ in the hours after she’d spent smiling and laughing with him at The Jolly or texting him or that one ridiculously nice night three days ago when he’d let Eric cook the dinner service and came three blocks downtown and sat in her living room for _family dinner_ with Mary Margaret and David.

He and David had several civil conversations that night.

They were both Yankees fans.

Emma liked that night.

And she hadn’t done a very good job of actually discussing _this_ night with Killian.

“I don’t remember that conversation at all, love,” he said softly, voice falling into her ear and sending a chill down her spine as they walked back into the building. That felt a bit like temperature-induced whiplash. “And I tend to remember all of our conversations.”  
  
“All of them?” she repeated speculatively as he finally let go of her hand so she could slide her arms out of her jacket.

Killian nodded, handing his own jacket to the attendant next to them before turning back towards Emma and staring at her like – what had Ruby called it? – like she was _the goddamn sun._ His mouth opened slowly, like he wanted to say something, but couldn’t remember the words and his eyes flashed, lingering for a moment on the very prominent necklace before drifting down to her waist and back up to her face.

Emma’s stomach tightened slightly at the look – not wholly unexpected, but absolutely uncharted territory. She’d never been looked at like that – not like she was just _wanted,_ but like she was loved. Or something absurd.

That was absurd.

He didn’t love her.

They’d known each other for a couple of months.

She certainly didn’t love him.

_That was absurd._

She just had to keep saying it. If she kept saying it, it was probably true. Probably.

Except she knew her own face looked a bit like his – tracing across the plane of his stomach in that ridiculous crisp white dress shirt underneath a tailored tuxedo jacket and fitted pants and who knew black tie could look so good.

He looked good.

“Are the reviews in?” Killian asked, smirk returning to his face for what felt like the first time in weeks. He stuck his hand in his pocket, thumb wrapping around the belt –  _fuck_ there was a belt too – and tilted his head slightly.

Emma shrugged, sticking out her lower lip slightly. “It’s alright,” she muttered, not even able to keep his gaze while she spoke.

He laughed softly, taking a step towards her, left hand falling on her waist without a word. And that was _something_ too – when this all started he’d, quite literally, hidden his hand behind his back, like he was embarrassed or nervous or something, like he didn’t think he was enough for her. Over the last few weeks though, since she’d held on to his prosthetic while he told her he wasn’t some kind of goddamn hero, he’d started to move _with_ it, letting it fall on her back or her waist or her thigh when they were sitting down.

And that meant something to her.

And, probably, to him.

Fuck.

“Just alright?” he asked, smirk full blown at this point. “I’ll admit that’s a bit disappointing.”  
  
“What were you hoping for?”

He raised one eyebrow – the movement sending a jolt of _something_ towards Emma’s core – and tugged her closer to him, muttering in her ear. “You know I haven’t kissed you tonight,” he said softly and she was probably still standing.

She couldn’t really feel her legs though, so she wasn’t entirely certain.

“Under the radar,” Emma mumbled, like it was some sort of mantra she’d taken up for the night. She’d lost track of the number of times she’d said it.

“I don’t remember that conversation,” he argued. “And you’re hardly playing fair, Swan.”  
  
“How so?”  
  
“Have you seen this dress?”  
  
“I’m wearing it,” Emma pointed out, pulling away slightly to find him staring at her intently, eyes darkening slightly when they met hers. “Ruby picked it out. I can’t really breathe in it.”  
  
He bent his head quickly – so quick Emma didn’t even time to mutter _under the radar_ again – brushing his lips against hers and letting his fingers move across her collarbone. “Well, love, your discomfort is a cross I’m willing to bear.”  
  
“Ass,” Emma mumbled, resting her hand on the lapel of his jacket and tugging. He rolled his head dramatically, drawing a laugh out of her.

“Remind me to thank Ruby later,” Killian said, grabbing her hand again and tugging her away from the coat check. “Come on, Swan, let me buy you a drink.”  
  
“It’s not open bar?”  
  
“That was an expression.”   
  
“Of course,” she laughed, following behind him and maybe _under the radar_ was overrated when your boyfriend’s hand felt so good in your own.

* * *

He ordered them rum.

Because it was, apparently, going to be that kind of a night.

Emma was two drinks in when Killian practically jumped off his seat in front of the bar, holding his hand out expectantly like she’d suddenly learned the fine art of mind reading. “What?” Emma asked, drink still in her hand.

Killian rolled his eyes at her and sighed dramatically, tilting his head towards the dance floor that was, suddenly, populated by people and couples and Emma knew maybe six of them. She should talk to more people when she was at work.

“Let’s go, Swan,” he said, waggling his fingers.

“What?” she repeated and Killian just laughed at her.

“We’re going to dance.”  
  
“But,” she said, falling into arguing quickly, “the drinks.”   
  
“We’ve both had several,” Killian pointed out. “They hired an actual _band,_  Swan. A real band. This is fancy. I’m wearing a tux. You’re wearing _that_ dress. Seems a shame not to take advantage of it.”  
  
Emma stared at him for a moment – she still hadn’t put the drink down – and Killian smiled softly at her, raising his eyebrows and, well, that just wasn’t playing fair. “I don’t know how to do any of that,” she said, nodding towards the couples and the dancing and the slow, instrumental music.

“That’s alright,” he countered, voice practically dripping with confidence as he grabbed the glass out of her hand put it back down on the bar. “I do.”  
  
“What?” she asked, again, practically screeching out the word as Killian grinned at her and pulled her away from the bar. “You mean you actually know how to do all of this...whatever this is?”  
  
“It’s a waltz, Swan.”  
  
“A waltz? Is it 1853?”  
  
“That’s oddly specific.”  
  
“And you can probably tell me what exactly was happening in the United States at the point too.”  
  
“Somehow I don’t think you’re interested in a history lesson.”  
  
“Just yours.”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“How do you know how to waltz?”  
  
Killian shrugged, fingers still wrapped up with Emma’s as he moved her in between a pair of couples she’d never seen at the network before in her life. He pulled her hand up, resting it against his shoulder and his left hand was back on her waist like it belonged there.

“You know they have Naval events, right?” he asked, moving them with ease and Emma was convinced he was good at everything. She shrugged in response – a wholly _unclassy_ movement for this decidedly classy event – and Killian chuckled softly, pulling her tighter against him. “They do,” he continued. “Dress whites and required dates and dancing. A frankly ridiculous amount of dancing. Not much has stuck after all of that, but, somehow this did. There’s probably some sort of psychological reasoning for that.”

They were moving and swaying and he didn’t need to get reservations to popular East Village restaurants – he was wooing her quite effectively in the middle of their network holiday party, several _hundred_ eyes on them. “I’m probably going to step on your feet,” Emma muttered.

She felt him laugh against her – body pressed up against hers with an anchor’s-weight hold on her waist – and it felt like he’d kissed the top of her head before he spoke. “That’s alright, love,” Killian said softly. “There’s only one rule to all of this anyway. Pick a partner who knows what he’s doing.”  
  
Emma couldn’t come up with a response – every witty, slightly sarcastic retort swallowed back by the sound of his voice and the feel of him against her. She nodded slowly, trying to make sure she didn’t loosen any of the several dozen pins in her head and let him keep moving them, the sound of the band drowned out by the rushing in her ears.

She absolutely wasn’t in love with him.

She just needed to keep reminding herself that.

“You two are doing a terrible job of not broadcasting this relationship,” Regina said, appearing next to them with a judgemental smile on her face and Robin’s hands wrapped around her hips.

Killian glanced at Emma – apprehension etched into his features – and she did her best to smile encouragingly back at him. He didn’t seem to believe her. “Shut up, Gina,” he mumbled as his hand moved farther up Emma’s back, landing on more appropriate co-worker territory.

“I’ve hit a nerve,” she said and Robin muttered something softly, earning a pair of rolled eyes and a sigh from his fiancée.

“You look really nice, Regina,” Emma said, turning to look at the producer’s jet-black dress and matching sky-high heels.

Regina eyes darted between Emma’s face – and almost honest smile – and Killian’s more-pointed-by-the-moment glare and shook her head, defenses coming down just a bit. “Thanks,” she said. “So do you.”  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
“Have you guys tried any of the hors d'oeuvres yet?” Robin asked – all four of them had stopped even trying to dance at this point. “They’re horrible. You know for a TV network based solely on cooking, you’d think they’d be able to pull in some good food.”  
  
Emma laughed and it shouldn’t be awkward – the four of them had plenty of perfectly normal conversations at The Jolly. Only this wasn’t The Jolly. This was the network holiday party with, apparently, shitty food and very strong drinks and Killian knew how to waltz and Emma couldn’t think.

“I’m glad you’re here though, Emma,” Regina said and that caught her by surprise. “I’ve been trying to get Killian to come to this since he started at IC. Always some excuse about dinner services and holiday rush.”  
  
“This is the first time you’ve been to this?” Emma asked, turning towards him quickly.

He shrugged, glaring at Regina again. “It never really seemed worth my time.”  
  
Emma’s let out a slightly shaky laugh, dragging her fingers down the side of her face as she shook her head slowly. “Me either.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“I’ve never gone before either,” she said. “Ruby’s always trying to get me to go to these things, mingle and network and everything and I never do it. But you mentioned it and I figured if you were going it wouldn’t be that bad. That’s why Rubes went all out on the dress, this is like, literal years of her waiting for this moment.”   
  
Killian’s laugh wasn’t quite as shaky as Emma’s had been – but it sounded a bit more like disbelief and there was that _common ground_ again. 

“Well, that’s just disgustingly adorable, isn’t it?” Regina asked and Robin muttered something again.

“Disgusting,” Killian repeated, smiling at Emma and leaning forward to kiss her again. It wasn’t quick. It wasn’t a brush. It was hard and emotional and in front of the entire network. And she didn’t stop him or push him away. She pressed up on her heels and pushed her hands into his hair – he didn’t have bobby pins to worry about – and kissed him back.

Emma only broke away when she heard Ruby yelling her name, screaming for people to get out of her way and God help anyone who didn’t immediately heed _that_ warning. Ruby skidded to a stop next to them, Killian’s arms back around Emma’s waist, and she nearly barreled over Robin in the process, hand landing on his shoulder so she didn’t fall over. Regina stared at her for a moment and Emma wondered if they were going to have some sort of producer standoff right in the middle of this dancefloor.

What a weird night.

“Breathe, Rubes,” Emma said and, for possibly the first time in her life, her producer did as instructed. “What’s going on?”  
  
“Were you two just making out?” Ruby asked.

“Was that why you ran across the dancefloor?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Then I don’t have to answer that.”  
  
“We’ll come back to that,” Ruby promised. “This is more important. I just talked to Zelena about the Christmas, holiday whatever episode. She watched the cut and she _fucking loved it._  Like it’s all she’s been talking about since I walked in. I think it’s driving Dor insane.”  
Emma blinked, leaning against Killian’s side as he wrapped his arm around her shoulder and held her hands out towards Ruby. “So, that means what? Exactly.”  
  
“It means she wants to air it on Sunday…”  
  
“It was always going to air on Sunday.”  
  
Ruby glared at her and Emma snapped her jaw shut quickly. “She wants to air it on Sunday at the right timeslot. Like the normal one. Ten o’clock.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Exactly what I said. She loved the episode and the banter and the flirting. No word on how she felt about you two making out at the holiday party or after we filmed…”  
  
“After you filmed?” Regina asked, cutting Ruby off. She didn’t get a glare though. She got an understanding smile – like they were oh-so-put-upon for having to deal with Emma and Killian. “You didn’t tell me that.”  
  
“I don’t tell you everything,” Killian muttered.

“Obviously.”  
  
“We’ll talk later,” Ruby promised and Regina nodded and Robin looked like he was watching some sort of very entertaining reality TV show. “Anyway,” Ruby continued. “She wants to run it at the normal time on Sunday. So consider that kind of like a test-run. If it does well then, she’s going to think about going back to the spot once we hit January.”  
  
“You’re serious?” Emma asked, doubt clouding her voice. Killian’s arm tightened slightly and she wondered if maybe he was the one with mind-reading powers. Or maybe he just knew her well.

“Why would I lie about that?”  
  
“I don’t know, I’m just double checking.”  
  
“There is nothing to double check. I literally just got this news from Zelena two minutes ago. Hence the running and interrupting makeouts and whatnot.”

“We weren’t making out.”  
  
“You were.”  
  
“You absolutely were,” Regina added.

“I mean, a little bit,” Robin said.

And Emma was positive her face was the same color as her dress. Killian squeezed her shoulder and kissed the top of her head again, earning himself three very loud groans from the other adults still in this conversation. “You’re all children,” he hissed at them. “You want a drink, Swan?”  
  
She nodded and he turned her on the spot – the apologies from those same three adults barely audible over the still-playing band as they moved their way back to the bar.

He ordered more rum and they waited for the drinks and he couldn’t seem to stop touching her. And, Emma, suddenly, realized how much she’d missed this.

She wasn’t at a loss for love or affection in her life. She had Henry and David and Mary Margaret and they were all more than willing to dole out support and encouragement and hugs – even if her twelve-year-old grumbled about it from time to time – but this was, decidedly, different.

Her mind shouted a handful of explanations she wasn’t even remotely prepared to entertain, but Emma knew it might be even more basic than that.

Because she hadn’t been on a date ever and he hadn’t been on a date since Milah and, between the two of them, they were both a little starved for something.

And maybe both a little terrified it might disappear.

So Emma didn’t say anything. She didn’t mention _under the radar_ again and she leaned into his hand meaningfully, relishing the way she could feel the heat of his fingers through her very fancy dress.

“You want to get out of here?” she asked, looking at him over her shoulder.

Killian’s eyebrows jumped up his forehead and the smile inched across his face slowly, making Emma’s heart stutter just a bit. “I’d like that a lot.”  
  
“Ok,” she said, taking a step away from the bar as soon as the man behind it put their drinks down on it.

“Hey,” he yelled behind them. “You don’t want these?”  
  
“All yours,” Killian answered, pulling their coat tickets out of his pocket and all but throwing them at the attendant in his determination to get them out of that building and away from 55th Street as soon as possible.

They were on the sidewalk, waiting for the next available car to pull up when he turned to look at her, eyes wide and mouth parted slightly with unspoken question. “I was thinking we could go back to your apartment,” Emma said, answering the question he hadn’t actually asked.

“Ok,” he said, hand never leaving hers as they slid into the backseat of the car.

* * *

They didn’t really talk.

Emma couldn’t really come up with anything to say.

Everything she thought up was decidedly inappropriate with a driver a few feet away from them and Killian’s fingers inching around her knee. He kept tapping his foot.

He was impatient.

That seemed like a good sign.

They hit another red light – two blocks away from The Jolly  – and the driver mumbled a half-hearted apology from the front seat. Emma tried to bite back a sigh.

“You know what,” Killian said quickly. “You can just let us out here. It’s fine. We’ll walk.”  
  
Impatience was a very good look on Killian Jones.

“It’s snowing,” the driver pointed out. “And we were told to take all the talent directly to their locations. I can’t just let you out.”  
  
“It’s fine,” Killian repeated, hand already on the door handle and his foot was on the side of the sidewalk before the driver could say another word, dragging Emma behind him.

“Thanks,” she said, laughing slightly as Killian pushed the door shut behind her. The light turned green and the car drove away and Emma wasn’t laughing anymore – it was difficult to do that when she was otherwise occupied.   
  
Killian’s hand cupped her jaw lightly, lips moving over hers enthusiastically and impatiently and a slew of other adjectives she’d come up with some other time. Her hands fisted the front of his jacket, tugging him closer to her again and he sighed against her mouth. “You’re awfully gung-ho,” Emma muttered, nose brushing against his as she spoke.   
  
“Well, when you suggest going back to my apartment, I’m afraid I get very single-minded, love.”  
  
“That so?”

He did something ridiculous with his eyebrows and one side of his mouth tilted up in a way that made him look so goddamn attractive she almost wished they’d stayed at the Waldorf and found some deserted closet or room or something.

Almost.

If they were going to do this – and it certainly seemed like they were going to do this – then she wanted to do it right.

She should have taken the necklace off.

“That is absolutely so,” he said, turning them down the street and all but sprinting towards the restaurant two blocks away. And if Emma thought her driver earlier had set some sort of record for getting uptown, it was nothing compared the near-sprint she and Killian exercised on their way to The Jolly.

They nearly ran over an entire group of tourists at one point, practically holding each other up in a mix of laughter and anticipation and the rather impressive amount of rum they’d managed to consume on the network’s budget.

And it was so _nice_ Emma’s mind couldn’t keep up with how fast her pulse was racing.

Killian tugged her around the back of The Jolly, pausing more than once to press her up against the side of the building and kiss her senseless, groaning when her thigh rubbed against his and her hips rolled instinctively. He fumbled with his keys for a moment, nearly dropping them when Emma started trailing kisses along the back of his neck and she couldn’t hold back her laugh at that.

“You’re distracting me, Swan,” he said, finally finding the right key and swinging the door open. “And you’ve got to be quiet or they’re going to pull me into this service.”

Emma nodded seriously, pressing her lips together tightly and Killian’s answering smile made her bite her tongue. He kept his hand locked in hers, pulling her around the room quickly and she was thankful for the natural sounds of a restaurant kitchen to drown out the soft clack of her heels on the linoleum floor.

The door upstairs creaked slightly and Emma darted in quickly – Killian only pulling it open a fraction of an inch before yanking it shut and catching her mouth with his again. She threw her hand back against the wall to keep herself upright and Emma wasn’t sure how they actually made it up the stairs, only knew that his apartment door wasn’t locked again and silently thanked _someone_ for that lack of obstacle.

They were a tangle of limbs and jackets and twisted buttons and Emma kicked her heels into the corner of the room – not counting on the sudden height difference making their current activity track slightly more difficult.

Killian ducked his head, bending his knees to meet Emma and he shouldn’t be this endearing or caring or _whatever,_  making her think all kinds of things that were absolutely absurd and completely impossible.  

He might have mumbled her name against her neck – actually calling her _Emma_ again – but she was too focused on getting his belt off him to notice. They hadn’t actually moved out of the living room, had barely moved _into_ the living room if they were being honest.

They’d closed the door and found themselves alone and were too focused on each other to actually realize that they hadn’t moved more than a few inches into the apartment. His hands were trailing across her spine and Emma bit her lip at the feel of it, only glancing up when she heard him groan in frustration.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“Your zipper is stuck.”  
  
She laughed softly and his eyes darted to hers, hand pressing into her back slightly and making her gasp. He bent his knees again, pulling her back up to him and he kissed her while he moved them, finally making their way into the apartment and down a hallway and she would have been more impressed with this apparent show of strength if he wasn’t so ridiculously good at kissing.

And they were in a bedroom now.

And she didn’t freak out.

She didn’t run.

Or think.

She kissed him instead, tugging on the tie he still had and pulling him across the doorway and towards the bed, landing next to each other with a soft thump. He stared at her for a moment, eyes practically boring a hole in her face and Emma felt some of that kiss-induced confidence wane a little bit.

Maybe she’d thought too far ahead.

“You are so beautiful,” Killian said softly and Emma couldn’t breathe. She bit her lip – desperate to not do something stupid like start to cry or gasp – and tried to come up with a single word. She couldn’t even think of a letter.

He smiled at her – that genuine, slightly nervous one that had settled under her skin and found a way into her life and broken down all those walls she was so certain had been necessary to keep everything on some sort of preordained, professional track – and moved his hand again, tugging on the zipper of her dress.

It moved that time.

That seemed like a sign.

She pushed the fabric down, sliding her arms out of the sleeves and leaving herself in far less clothing than she had on when she walked into the bedroom – and far more clothing than Killian had on.

“We seem to be a bit one-sided here,” Emma mumbled, keeping her eyes away from Killian’s. It didn’t matter. They were very obviously otherwise occupied, trailing down her body and across her chest and her legs, fingers following and leaving goosebumps on Emma’s skin.

“What are you saying, Swan?” he chuckled, pressing kisses across her stomach as he moved so his legs were on either side of hers.

“That you’re wearing too many clothes,” she answered.

And he seemed to appreciate getting straight to the point. “You could help,” he pointed out, smirking at her and _fuck_ his eyes were blue.

Emma nodded once, reaching up to grab the front of his dress shirt again and she started working her way down the lines of buttons, pulling the tie off as well and throwing it in the same direction her dress had landed. He worked his own belt off, flicking open the button of his pants and Emma seized an opportunity – dragging her fingers across the line of his boxers and drawing a noise out of him that might have been a groan or a sigh. She wasn’t going to get into the semantics of it.

Killian rested his weight on his forearm – the edges of his now undone shirt hitting against Emma’s stomach and making her bite her lip again – as he kicked out of his pants, pushing them off the edge of the bed with a surprising amount of force.

She was the impatient one now – hands pushing on his shoulders to try and get his shirt off and he grinned at her, eyebrows moving up and down quickly as he moved his right arm up, teeth holding onto the cuff to pull it off his arm.

She hadn’t thought of that.

And she was an idiot.

She should have remembered, should have realized it was harder for him or _something,_  but she hadn’t – had gotten so used to the weight of his left hand on her back and how he wasn’t nervous to touch her with it anymore that she nearly forgot it wasn’t actually part of him.

He made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat when the sleeve got caught on the top of his brace and his eyes darted back down to Emma’s with so much emotion in them that she really did almost start to cry.

She leaned up on her elbows, smiling at him and pulled the shirt off the rest of the way, fingers lingering on the top of the brace – skimming on the skin just above his wrist – and she could hear his shaky breath, eyes focused on her hand.

“It’s ok,” Emma said softly.

He bit his lip, teeth tugging slightly as he pulled his eyes away from her fingers and met her gaze. “Swan,” he sighed, but she just shook her head.

“No, don’t do that, don’t _Swan_ me. It’s ok.”

Killian took another deep breath – less shaky this time – and nodded once. Emma pushed her fingers back in his hair, pulling his head down to meet hers without another word and they fell into each other again – respective pasts and disappointments forgotten for a few moments when they touched each other.

She rolled her hips against him when his hand dipped lower, tugging away the last remnants of her clothing and this was different.

Emma wasn't a nun – Henry had spent nights at David’s and Mary Margaret’s over the years and while she hadn’t ever really gone on a date, she certainly hadn’t delved into a life of celibacy either. This was different. And better. And so cliché, she probably would have laughed at herself if she stopped to think about it too long.

But he kept doing that thing with his fingers and muttering things in her ear and when he rested the weight of his hips against hers, Emma squeezed her eyes shut and saw stars.

He reached around her, fumbling for a moment with a drawer and a table and a few choice curse words before yanking a string of foil packets out, pulling the top one off with his teeth. “That confident, huh?” Emma teased.

Killian shot her a look and kissed her quiet before pushing the packet into her hand. “You want to do the honors, love? Unless you’d like me to impress you by tearing it open with my teeth again.”  
  
“No, that’s alright,” Emma mumbled, forcing him onto his back and straddling his hips. She grabbed one of the squares quickly and he laughed softly when she all but yanked it apart. That didn’t last long. His eyes went wide and he choked out another groan when she rolled the latex over him, hand lingering for a few moments that she enjoyed much more than she would have expected.

“Swan,” he said again, but this was an entirely different voice and an entirely different plea. And she felt loved and wanted and not nearly as overwhelmed as she expected.

That was a nice change of pace.

Killian pulled on her hips sharply, dragging her body across his and kissing her again, hand pushed in her hair despite the bobby pins. He was everywhere at once. Emma felt like she could feel him in every inch of her body – the same way he’d managed to move into every single inch of her life.

There was probably some deeper meaning to that, some profound discovery about herself and them and letting people in – but she couldn’t come up with any other words except _oh fuck_ and _just like that_ and her whole body felt like it was on pins and needles, eyes squeezed shut and Killian’s hand tightening around her waist when they both moved.

They didn’t say anything for what felt like years after – Killian’s fingers brushing up and down her spine again and his lips tracing some sort of nonsensical pattern across the top of her hair. She thought he’d fallen asleep, bordering close to that as well, when his voice broke through the darkness and made her jump slightly.

“Are you alright, love?” he asked softly.

Emma lifted her head up, eyebrows pulled low. “Of course, why?”  
  
It took two seconds to hit her – he wanted to make sure she didn’t run. Or tell him it was a _one-time thing._  And her heart thudded loudly at the idea that maybe – just maybe – he was as nervous as she was about messing all of this up.

Killian nodded slowly, hand still moving against her skin. “Just checking.”

“I’m fine,” she promised. “Better than.”  
“Better than?”   
“You’ve been complimented enough tonight. I think you can deal with just ‘better than.’”

He nodded again, smile tugging on his lips and kissed her, pulling her against him. And Emma wasn’t about to argue with that, but then her stomach growled and her cheeks flushed and Killian laughed loudly.

“Hungry, Swan?”

“We didn’t really eat at the party.”  
  
“True.”  
  
“Preoccupied and whatnot.”  
  
“Also true,” he said, still laughing as he sat up, grabbing at least boxers before swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Emma groaned at the movement and he flashed her a grin. “I’ll make you some food, love.”

He smiled at her again, holding his hand out towards her and Emma took it without a second thought, grabbing his dress shirt in the process and following him into the kitchen. He didn’t ask about the necklace and she didn’t think about it for the rest of the night.

She stayed instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeeeyyyyo happy weekend everyone! Things are happening! We're not just making out anymore! Stuff! Is! Happening! 
> 
> A very special thank you to @laurnorder who did not realize what was coming this chapter and beta'd while at work. The real MVP, guys. 
> 
> Thank you for every click, comment and kudos. Come flail with me on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	23. Chapter 23

Her phone was ringing. 

Or maybe vibrating. 

It woke her up. 

Killian grumbled slightly next to her, mumbling something about  _ silent _ and  _ Saturday _ and Emma tried to twist her way out of the maze of limbs and bed sheets they’d become at some point in the middle of the night. 

She hadn’t left. 

She’d stayed all night. 

She never stayed all night. Ever. But after middle-of-the-night breakfast and more kisses and the way Killian couldn’t seem to stop touching her, Emma couldn’t come up with a reason  _ not _ to stay. Mary Margaret’s head was going to explode. 

Or she might yell at her first – Emma’s eyes fell on the name emblazoned across her phone screen, swiping her thumb across it quickly and doing her best to pull away from Killian again. He tugged her back, muttering again and his voice against her skin left her breathless when she answered the phone. 

“Hey M’s,” Emma said, hoping the lack of a question in her greeting would get her point across quicker. 

“Hey,” Mary Margaret answered and her voice lacked the edge Emma had been anticipating. She sounded a bit worried. “You ok?”  
  
“Of course I’m ok. Why wouldn’t it be?”   
  
“You have any idea what time it is?”   
  
“None.”   
  
“Almost noon.”   
  
Emma blinked a few times, trying to figure out why that was an issue – Henry was staying with them. She’d been  _ told _ to go back to the bed in the bedroom and not worry about anything. Then she heard the voices in the background and the undeniable sound of the bell on Granny’s door and, suddenly, remembered it was Saturday and that meant brunch and Mary Margaret had never expected her to actually stay the night. 

“Oh fuck,” Emma mumbled as realization hit her and Mary Margaret clicked in tongue in disapproval. She swung her feet over the edge of the bed, trying to find some article of clothing that belonged to her and came up decidedly short. 

Killian was awake now – staring at her with wide eyes and a concern that would have kept her in bed for the remainder of the afternoon if she hadn’t already forgotten about this stupid brunch. She tried to brush off his gaze, but he was sitting up now and still shirtless and she didn’t have any clothes. 

All she had was that stupid dress. 

“David keeps talking about how this has happened to you before,” Mary Margaret said, sounding like she was almost entertained by this. “I have no idea what he’s talking about.”   
  
“He’s just lording facts over you. Ignore him.”

Emma pressed the phone against her ear with her shoulder, shimmying into underwear and she could hear Killian move behind her, determined to not look back at him for fear of the very specific look in his eyes and what it would do to her ability to get out of this apartment. 

“Where are you?” Mary Margaret asked suddenly, voice snapping a bit as Emma cursed when she stubbed her toe against a pair of shoes. She didn’t answer immediately, grabbing sweat pants and a t-shirt out of Killian’s closet and holding them up in front of her in unspoken question. 

“Sure,” he said and his voice absolutely carried because Mary Margaret audibly gasped into the phone. Emma groaned, phone slipping a bit against her shoulder. 

“Oh my God,” Mary Margaret muttered, the creak of a booth moving behind her and Emma was grateful she’d at least walked away from David and Henry to have this conversation. “You’re not home. You didn’t go home!”   
  
“This was your idea,” Emma argued, rolling the top of the sweat pants she’d claimed several times so they wouldn’t fall down. She’d have to go home. She couldn’t walk into Granny’s like this. 

“No, it wasn’t. I just suggested you use the bed. I didn’t say to stay in the bed. You did that all on your own.” Emma didn’t answer again, well aware of her shoe dilemma at this point and wondering how she was going to walk three blocks downtown looking like she did. She was going to draw her fair share of stares. 

“Emma,” Mary Margaret said – mom voice – and she didn’t have any choice but to focus her attention on her sister-in-law. “Did you really stay? All night?”

“Yeah,” she answered, Killian’s eyes practically leaving a trail of fire and emotion and  _ sentiment _ as they moved towards her. “Listen, there’s no way I’m going to be there by twelve. I’ve got to get some clothes.”   
  
“What? You don’t even have any clothes? Did you go straight there? Did you leave the party early? Oh my God!”   
  
Mary Margaret was hysterical at this point and Emma hoped she’d at least gone to the front of Granny’s where the chances of David and Henry overhearing here were far less likely. 

“M’s, please focus,” Emma said, looking for the coat she’d left in the living room the night before. Killian was out of bed now too – boxers and jeans and a t-shirt on and a fairly amused smile on his face as he took a few cautious steps towards her. Emma rolled her eyes. “Tell Henry and David I’ll be there. Let them think I woke up late or something.”   
  
“You did. That’s not a lie.”

“You know what I meant.”   
  
“I do and, for the record, I think this is as wonderful as it is hysterical. I won’t tell David. Bring Killian with you and get new clothes and then come here. I can stall in the meantime.”   
  
“You’re the best, you know that,” Emma said, meaning it. 

She could hear Mary Margaret’s smile over the phone and the slight scrape of her cheek against the screen as she nodded. “Mostly I’m just trying not to scream for joy in the middle of Granny’s. Bring him with you. Henry will like that.”

“Twenty minutes, tops.”   
  
“I’ll see you then.”

She hung up the phone, not able to even dramatically stuff it in her pocket because she wasn’t wearing her own pants and turned to look at Killian – still standing a few feet away from her with a bemused smile on his face. 

“You have somewhere to be, love?” he asked, crossing his arms slightly and rocking back on his heels. 

“Brunch. A standing Saturday brunch that I completely forgot about until just now.”   
  
“You have a standing Saturday brunch?”   
  
Emma shrugged – this explanation was cutting into her self-allotted twenty minute deadline. “In that Henry and I meet David and Mary Margaret for breakfast-type food every Saturday at Granny’s. Sometimes it’s only Mary Margaret if David has to work.”   
  
“And does he have to work today?”   
  
“Not if the very pointed laughter at me being late in the background was any indication.”   
  
Killian raised his eyebrows – and that smile was ridiculous at this point. “So, what you’re saying is you were so preoccupied here, with me, that you completely forgot about a long-standing Swan family tradition?”   
  
“Something like that,” Emma said, turning towards the door. She had to hold the top of the sweatpants so they wouldn’t fall down her legs. And she could practically hear Killian trying to hold in the laughter as he followed her back into the living room. At least he was trying. “Although, if we’re being honest it’s more like a Nolan family tradition. There’s more of them at the table.”   
  
“Two and two, right?”   
  
“We’ve started counting Leo Henry as an actual Nolan. Now that he has a name and we’re not just referring to him as tiny-Nolan anymore.” 

“Ah, of course. Silly of me to think otherwise.”

God, he was even charming in the morning. Or almost noon. After she’d spent the night at his apartment. 

And she wanted him to come with her – wanted him to be part of this Nolan, Swan,  _ family _ tradition more than she realized when Mary Margaret suggested it – but then she heard David’s laughter in the background and the way Regina had stared at them when they were dancing the night before and Emma found herself squarely in the realm of freaking out. 

It had taken longer to get there then expected. 

That seemed like kind of a victory. 

“So,” Killian said slowly, dragging the two letters out to sound like the Gettysburg Address. “I’ll see you later?”

And that did it – Emma jumped back out of  _ freaking out _ with so much whiplash she was positive her neck cracked at the metaphorical movement – the nervous tone in his voice, the question he wasn’t asking and the way his eyes kept raking over her in his clothes. 

She wanted him there. 

“Or you could come with me,” she said and his eyes widened for a fraction of a second. He schooled that quickly, doing his best to look vaguely impassive as he nodded slowly. 

“Yeah?”   
  
“Why not? Do you have somewhere to be?”   
  
“No,” Killian said, still shaking his head. “I just don’t want to interrupt some sort of long-standing Saturday afternoon tradition.”   
  
“And I think you’re a little scared of my brother.”   
  
“I’m not scared of anyone.”   
  
“No?” Emma laughed. 

“He doesn’t like me, Swan, not the other way around.”   
  
“I thought we were making progress with joint Yankee fandoms and wanting to teach Henry how soccer worked.”   
  
“Yeah, but then I mentioned something about going to a second-team EPL game at MetLife with Robin and Rol last year and that got Henry talking and his voice picked up like it does when he’s excited and I don’t think your brother appreciated that all that much.”

Emma eyed him critically – trying not to actually react to the fact that Killian had noticed the way Henry’s voice picked up when he was excited about something because that didn’t mean  _ anything _ – and reached forward, fingers tugging on his left hand. 

“Forget David,” she said. “I want you to come.”   
  
He smiled at her – letting her hold on to his hand before he moved it to rest on her waist like there was a magnet there she didn’t know about. “Ok,” he said simply.    
  
It felt bigger. 

“I have to change,” Emma mumbled, trying to slide her feet into her heels and nearly falling over in the process. 

“You mean you don’t want to show up in my sweatpants?”   
  
“Something like that.”   
  
“I think you’re a little scared of your brother.”   
  
And that might have been more true than he realized – because, once upon a time, David had saved Emma and then, when she got out of prison, he’d saved her again and let her figure out her life without a single question, just an unwavering support that made it feel like he was  _ actually _ her brother in more ways than just a sheet of paper in a Maine State Supreme Court filing cabinet. 

She wanted David to like Killian. She wanted Killian to like David. 

She wanted. Again. 

And she was a bit nervous that all this wanting was going to set her up for an even bigger fall than the one Neal had. It had all been going too well. 

She was a pessimist. 

“I don’t have to come, Swan,” Killian said, eyeing her as she wobbled a bit on her heels, taking her silence for the confirmation it was. He just didn’t realize what it had confirmed. “It’s really ok.”   
  
“No, no” Emma said quickly and his nervous smile would probably be her undoing at some point. “I just...you’re right.”   
  
“About?”

“Being nervous around my brother. I told you he blames himself for Neal and everything that happened and he’s absurdly overprotective. Is it super lame to say that I just want my older brother to like my boyfriend?”   
  
He kissed her – and it was over before it really began, which was probably for the best since they were absolutely going to be late. And they were already late to begin with. 

“You said boyfriend,” he mumbled against her lips.

“Aren’t you?”   
  
“Sure, just the first time you’ve said it out loud.”   
  
“We defined the relationship a week ago.”   
  
“And you said Ruby called me your boyfriend, Swan. But you never actually said it. That’s the first time that’s happened.”

“Are you keeping a tally?” Emma asked, trying to hide her feelings with sarcasm. He absolutely saw through it. 

“No, but it’s fairly easy to keep track in my head when I know it hasn’t happened yet. Zero’s a very simple stat to remember.” Emma nodded slowly, teeth pressed against the inside of her lip, waiting for something she wasn’t entirely sure she was going to get. “And for what it’s worth,” Killian added, moving to trail kisses along her jaw. “I’d like my girlfriend’s brother to like me too.”

And it felt like there were butterflies in her stomach and her heart clenched slightly and it was all so middle school it was bordering on ridiculous – but that was the first time  _ anyone _ had told her that. 

And it sounded better than she thought it could. 

“Come downstairs real quick,” Killian said, seemingly unaware of what he’d just done. “Ari’s got a pair of flats she keeps stashed underneath the hostess stand. You can steal ‘em for now so you don’t kill yourself walking back to the apartment.”

“She won’t mind?”   
  
“She won’t notice.”

Emma nodded, letting him direct her downstairs with his hand on her back and an entire pack of butterflies in her stomach.    
  
In the end, they were thirty-five minutes late and David only laughed a little bit when they slid into the booth, holding his hand out towards Killian like it was 1952. Mary Margaret grinned knowingly at her, hand resting lightly on her stomach and Henry groaned slightly when they told him he had to go grab another chair. 

“So,” David said, the forced cheer in his voice making Emma’s teeth practically rotten. “How was the party last night? I mean the Waldorf’s super fancy, your dress looked super fancy, Em.”   
  
“It was a nice dress,” Emma agreed, eyes darting across the table towards Mary Margaret for help. “The heels were killer though.”   
  
“You didn’t fall over once, Swan,” Killian said, glancing at her with his arm draped out over the back of the booth and his fingers toying with the end of her ponytail. David didn’t say anything. It felt a bit like a miracle. “Even dancing. You were close to a natural.”   
  
David said something to that. And he might have choked on his coffee a bit. Even Mary Margaret put her cup down and Henry was hysterical in his designated chair on the side of the table. “You danced?” David asked, sounding like she’d also won a Gold medal in figure skating the night before. “When? How?”   
  
Emma took a deep breath and Killian’s hand fell on the back of her neck – and he was absurdly good at this, this supportive  _ boyfriend _ thing and she shouldn’t have been surprised. He was good at everything. “I did dance,” she said pointedly. “For more than one dance too. In heels. Post-drinks.”   
  
“And you didn’t break your ankle?”   
  
“No broken bones that I’m aware of.”   
  
“She didn’t break any bones?” David asked, directing his attention to Killian. Emma glanced at Mary Margaret again who pressed her lips together tightly and nodded. It felt like a step in the right direction. Some sort of family, relationship direction. 

It was nice. 

“She did not break any bones,” Killian confirmed and David’s whole chest heaved with a sigh of apparent relief.    
  
“Good,” David said, picking up his coffee again and taking a sip. “That’s good. She looked good in the dress, didn’t she?”   
  
“I’m sitting right here,” Emma mumbled, but she wasn’t sure David had even heard her. 

“Of course she did,” Killian said. David nodded once and it felt  _ nice  _ and maybe, almost, normal. Granny came and took orders and delivered coffee-hot chocolate hybrids and Henry was talking a mile-a-minute about how he had to choose a soccer team because Roland had a a soccer team and Killian actually looked amused and entertained and not even remotely overwhelmed by the twelve-year-old in front of him or the family around him. 

He looked comfortable. 

He looked like he fit. 

“Oh!” Emma said suddenly, hands slamming down on the table and shaking her plate of half-eaten home fries slightly. “I forgot!”   
  
“Did you actually break any bones?” David asked, laughing softly and glancing at Killian with a knowing smile and there might have been some bonding happening here. 

“No,” Emma groaned. “But I promise this is definitely more interesting than the status of any of my bones.”   
  
“Well,” Mary Margaret said, smiling at her, “color me intrigued.”   
  
“They’re putting me back at ten.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“Was that English?” David asked, but Henry was staring at her wide-eyed and wide-mouthed and the smile on his face made Emma’s heart thump erratically in her chest. Killian’s hand tightened slightly.    
  
“Mom, for real?” Henry asked. “For real? Killian, is she lying?”   
  
“You honestly think I’d lie about that?” Emma asked. “And give me two seconds to respond before you go turning to him for confirmation.”   
  
Henry rolled his eyes. “She’s not lying,” Killian muttered, smiling over Emma’s head at her kid and Henry practically leapt off the chair, knocking it over for good measure and throwing his arms around Emma and kind of around Killian because he hadn’t moved his hand away from her neck. 

“Mom!” Henry cried. “That’s fantastic.”   
  
“I still have no idea what’s going on,” David muttered and Henry pulled away, yanking his chair back up. 

“They’re moving Swan’s show back up to ten this Sunday,” Killian said, the smile on his face almost looking proud and Emma’s heart rate had to go back to a normal level at some point or she’d probably go into cardiac arrest in this booth. 

“It’s just a test thing,” she mumbled and Henry cried  _ what _ and David and Mary Margaret still looked confused. 

“Ruby said Zelena loved it, Swan,” Killian continued, ignoring her protests and rolled eyes with a flash of teeth and shoulders straightened with confidence. “Plus we made pecan pie. There’s no way they can argue a show with pecan pie on it.”   
  
“You were on the show?” Henry asked suddenly and Emma tried to not slide down the side of the booth. She could feel Killian’s questioning glance on the side of her head and David put his coffee cup back down, the sound of it, somehow, echoing in her ears. Mary Margaret muttered her name softly –  _ mom voice _ – and Emma pulled her lips back behind her teeth until it hurt. 

She should have kept her phone on silent. 

Or kept her life in boxes. 

It was easier with the boxes. 

“Swan?” Killian said and her head spun so fast it felt like it was on a swivel. “You didn’t say anything about the show?”

“It kind of slipped my mind,” she muttered. 

“Slipped your mind?”

Emma shrugged. “You made pecan pie on the show?” Henry asked, bouncing back from surprise quickly. “Do you make that at The Jolly? You should make that at The Jolly for Christmas, I bet it’d sell great.”  
  
“I don’t remember hiring you as my PR guy,” Killian laughed. David was still staring at Emma – something significant passing over his face. “But you’re probably right. I hadn’t made it in awhile though. The show was the first time in years.”   
  
“What?” Emma asked sharply and his eyes widened like he’d just divulged some sort of top-secret information. 

“It’s kind of an old recipe.”   
  
“How old?”   
  
“My mom’s,” he said, taking a sip of coffee and staring at the cup in his hands for several seconds. 

The boxes Emma had been so interested in maintaining seemed to collapse in on themselves in the span of two words and one sentence – or maybe they’d been a lost cause the night before. “You made your mom’s pecan pie on my sister’s show?” David asked, that same significant look passing over his face. 

Killian nodded. “It was a Christmas thing. She used to make it every year.”   
  
“Used to?”   
  
“She died when I was about Henry’s age.”   
  
And that did  _ something _ to the mood of the table and David looked embarrassed, eyes ducking back down and fork twisting in between his fingers. “I’m so sorry,” Mary Margaret said softly and Killian shrugged quickly like making his  _ mother’s  _ pecan pie recipe on Emma’s show wasn’t the biggest deal in the entire world. 

The metaphorical boxes evaporated in the metaphorical scenario Emma was running in her head. 

“You should make the pie,” Henry said, certainty in his voice. 

“You want the pie don’t you?” Killian asked, smile tugging on the side of his mouth. 

“Whatever.”   
  
“I’ll make the pie in a couple of days.”   
  
“Deal!”

And the table was fine again and there were smiles and more homefries and David wouldn’t let anyone else even  _ look _ at the check, let alone consider paying it, but Emma saw Killian slide a couple of extra bills in with the tip. 

They filed out of Granny’s slowly – David talking to Henry about afternoon plans and video games – and Emma fell into a rhythm next to Killian, his hand falling onto the small of her back again and she silently wondered when that had become a thing. 

She didn’t mind it as much as she thought it would. 

“I need to bring Ariel her shoes back,” she said. 

“She’ll be fine for a night or two.”   
  
“A night or two?”   
  
He stopped walking, tugging the back of her jacket so Emma had no choice but to turn around and look at him – and he looked like the jumble of emotions she felt in every single one of her organs. “I didn’t want to assume,” Killian said. “I mean, I don’t know what your schedule looked like or anything.”   
  
“We’ve been coming to The Jolly like three nights a week.”   
  
“I’m not disagreeing with that.”   
  
“So what are you disagreeing with?” Killian took a deep breath, hand tightening around the back of her coat and it almost looked like he was nervous. “You look a bit anxious there, Lieutenant,” she muttered and he sighed again, but he looked more amused now. 

“Swan, we have talked about the nicknames.”   
  
“It’s not a nickname, it’s a rank. There’s a definite difference. And you don’t have a leg to stand on in this one. You literally just used your own nickname in passive aggressive defense right there.”   
  
“There’s no passive or aggressive.”   
  
“Then tell me what you’re all nervous-face about.”   
  
“I don’t get nervous-face.”   
  
“You are, right now.”   
  
He rolled his whole head dramatically and David yelled something from the far end of the block, demanding they  _ catch up _ and, fuck, they were going back to Emma’s apartment. It was a mess. An uncharacteristic mess because she’d gotten ready for the holiday party and then...hadn’t gone home. 

“I’m not nervous,” Killian said, hand letting go of her jacket and wrapping around her waist. “I am curious.”   
  
“About?”   
  
“You didn’t tell them.”   
  
“Now I’m the one who’s curious. And confused. What are you talking about?”   
  
“You didn’t tell your family,” he repeated. “About me being on your show.”   
  
“Oh,” Emma said softly. “That.”   
  
“That.”

“It never came up?”   
  
“Your once-a-year, possibly-ratings-altering holiday show never came up once? Not with your brother or your sister-in-law or your kid who seemed very disappointed that  _ he _ wasn’t the one making pecan pie on your show.”   
  
“Henry couldn’t have made pecan pie,” Emma argued, hands resting on the front of his jacket and toes almost touching the front of his shoes. “He barely even knows how to turn the stove on. He’s all about microwaved frozen food these days.”   
  
“You need to teach that boy some culinary skills, Swan.”   
  
“Or you could do it. I bet he’d like that more.” Killian stared at her, disbelief clouding the blue in his eyes and he turned his head speculatively. “What?” Emma asked. Her stomach felt like it was twisted in half a dozen naval knots. She wondered if that had stuck too – like the dancing. 

“That’s your call, love, not mine.”   
  
The realization swept over her in the middle of the sidewalk like some sort of week and a half before Christmas tidal wave. It nearly knocked her over – she was glad she was wearing flats. “I’m sorry,” Emma mumbled, forehead falling down against his shoulder.

“Why didn’t you tell them?”   
  
“It really honestly never came up. But also, I was slightly terrified of it.”   
  
“Of me being on your show?”   
  
“Of what you being on my show meant.”   
  
“I’m curious all over again, Swan.”   
  
Emma sighed, tongue darting over her lips and it was, suddenly, very difficult to breathe. David and Mary Margaret and Henry had given up waiting for them, she could barely make out their figures two blocks away. 

“It was a big deal,” she mumbled, still leaning against his jacket. 

“I know that.”   
  
“And I didn’t want to say anything in case it didn’t work out.”   
  
“How would it not work out? I cook on TV regularly, Swan. I know how to hit a mark and make prep food look like just-made food.”   
  
“You never cook with prep food.”   
  
“That doesn’t seem like the point.”   
  
“It’s not,” Emma sighed. His hand tightened and Killian rolled his shoulder slightly to get her to look back up at him. He was smiling and Emma felt like the nervous one now. He didn’t say anything else, just nodded slightly, eyebrows raised and he was waiting for her. He did that a lot. “I’m not used to being someone’s girlfriend. And I know we weren’t  _ technically _ using that term when you were on the show, but it was kind of like that already and we’d been on a date and we made out on your couch and I didn’t want to tell M’s and David or Henry because it was  _ good _ , really good and I didn’t want to tell them and let them get their hopes up on something that might not work out and feel free to stop me at any point because this is a really long, run-on sentence.”   
  
He leaned forward quickly, meeting her mouth and moving his lips and that was a much better response than her slightly manic, run-on sentence had been. 

“Good interruption,” Emma muttered. 

“You didn’t want  _ them _ to get their hopes up?” Killian asked, eyebrows still pulled high. “Or something else?”   
  
He didn’t explicitly say it – but he knew. And he wasn’t wrong. “It’s a big deal,” Emma said again. 

“Of course it is.”

“And you’re cool with that?”   
  
“With what?”   
  
“My emotional hang-ups and worries and asterisks next to guest appearances on my show. Because no one guest appears on my show. Like ever. It’s all me, all the time. Maybe that’s why the ratings have started to suck.”   
  
“That’s not why the ratings have started to suck, Swan,” Killian said, cutting her off sharply and trailing his thumb across her chin. “And, frankly, they don’t really suck all that much to begin with. They’re still pretty good for the timeslot, but that doesn’t matter, you’re getting it back anyway. With or without the Christmas episode.”   
  
“Holiday episode,” she corrected softly and he laughed slightly before brushing his lips against hers again. 

“Of course. Even so, I’m confident in this one.”   
  
“Why?” 

It wasn’t the first time she’d asked him that and Killian didn’t miss a beat – barely even blinked, just smiled at her and pushed her hair off her shoulders.

“I’ve yet to see you fail.”

Emma’s shoulders slumped and her head fell back against his shoulder and he was laughing when he wrapped his arm tightly around her waist. “You didn’t answer the other question,” she said. 

“Refresh my memory.”   
  
“About my emotional hang-ups and worries and all of those.”   
  
“You’re not the only one with those, Swan.”   
  
“No?”   
  
“I seem to remember a second-date full of overly emotional and vaguely depressing backstory in an after-hours construction site. I think that’s a pretty good example of all of my hang-ups and worries. Emotional or otherwise.”   
  
Maybe she should tell him the truth about Neal. 

Or the rest of the truth about Neal. 

He’d told her about Milah.    
  
He’d told her about Liam. 

He  _ believed _ in her. 

Killian deserved to know the truth and that was a completely foreign feeling. The less-foreign-feeling was the quiet, persistent bundle of nerves that seemed to have taken up residence in Emma’s stomach whenever she thought about telling him about Neal. 

Like if he knew, he wouldn’t believe in her or something. 

And she really liked him believing in her. 

“Wasn’t yesterday our second date?” she asked and he rolled his eyes again. 

“I thought we’d settled all of this. The re-do date was the second date. Yesterday was the  _ third _ date. That’s why we got to do what we got to do. Societal rules to follow and all of that.”   
  
“Ah, of course. And here I thought it was just because I’d gotten you drunk.”   
  
“That was hardly drunk, Swan.”   
  
“I look forward to seeing that someday.”   
  
His eyes darkened for a moment and Emma worried she’d said something wrong, but it was gone in a few moments, blinked away and replaced by that same, genuine, encouraging look that had  _ absolutely _ gotten her to do what she’d done the night before. 

Killian’s hand reached forward, tugging on the chain around her neck slightly, eyebrows falling low. “I meant to ask you,” he said softly. “Is this new?”   
Emma’s pulse stuttered slightly and she shook her head slowly. “No, super old actually. I’ve had it for years.”   
  
“It doesn’t look like a normal necklace.”   
  
“That’s because it’s a keychain.”   
  
“A keychain?”

She shrugged. “I was a very creative seventeen-year-old.”   
  
Killian’s eyes narrowed slightly and he was very perceptive – dangerously perceptive. And her plan had failed tremendously. “Seventeen?” he repeated, hand falling away. She shrugged again. Or maybe nodded. She couldn’t really think. 

“Emma?” he asked and that wasn’t fair. “Did Neal give you that?”   
  
He was smart. 

Of course he was. Smart and attractive and he believed in her – and she couldn’t lie to him anymore than she already had. “Yeah,” she said softly. 

He nodded slowly, lips pressed together in a straight line and she could feel the tension shoot through his entire body. “Ok,” Killian answered and Emma didn’t know what to say, couldn’t imagine how she hadn’t fallen over when she tripped over her own feet while standing still. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, the words falling out of her mouth again. 

“You don’t have anything to apologize, love. Just, you know, trust me, ok? You can tell me things. You can tell your family things when they include me showing up and making pecan pie on your show. In fact, I’d like it if you did.”   
  
“I can do that,” Emma promised, hoping  _ that _ wasn’t a lie too. 

“Good.”   
  
“You want to come back and play video games? I’m sure that’s what David and Henry are doing already.”

He shook his head slowly and she shouldn’t have been so disappointed. “I’ve got to get ready for tonight. Saturday’s in December are usually full of walk-ups and missed reservations and Will might need some help behind the bar.”   
  
“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Emma muttered, disappointment sinking into her bones. Or maybe she was just cold.    
  
“You could come tomorrow,” Killian said. “For dinner. If you want. I’ll make Henry something that wasn’t microwaved.”   
  
“He won’t be able to tell the difference.”   
  
“Maybe we can tag-team him in the art of actual food.”   
  
“I like that plan.”   
  
“Good.”

“I’ll bring Ariel’s shoes back then,” Emma said and Killian grinned at her, fingers falling through her hair and the disappointment was replaced with desire faster than she would have expected it. “And, from now on, I’ll tell David and M’s things.”   
  
“And Henry too.”   
  
“And Henry too,” Emma promised. “And, you know, maybe we don’t have to be so focused on under the radar. We weren’t very good at it.”   
  
Killian gaped at her – waiting for the  _ but _ in that sentence and then beaming at her when it never came. “We weren’t,” he agreed, voice filled with the emotion they’d been so focused on a few minutes before. “But we could be good at  _ this. _ ”   
  
“I think so too.”  
  
“Good,” Killian said. “Good. Good.”   
  
“I think you think it’s good.”   
  
“That’s because it is.”   
  
“Good,” Emma repeated, heels popping out of the flats when she surged up to kiss him quickly. “Go impress the walk-ups. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I look forward to it,” Killian said, squeezing her arm and turning back up the block – they’d somehow ended up in front of Emma’s apartment, walking down the street during that relationship-defining conversation. 

And as she swung open the door, Emma couldn’t quite wait either, maybe believing in him as much as he believed in her. 

* * *

Her phone rang at 11:05.

“Mom,” Henry yelled from the living room. “Your phone is ringing!”   
  
Emma couldn’t stop the eye roll and slightly sarcastic smile in response – as if she couldn’t hear her phone ringing a few feet away. “Thanks, kid, you’ve got a real future in updates.”   
  
Henry made a noise in response, walking into the kitchen and dropping the still-ringing phone in her outstretched hands. “The episode was good,” he said for the fourth time since it had finished five minutes before. “That pie looked really good.”   
  
“Killian promised he’d make the pie,” Emma said, smile threatening to split her entire face in half as she answered the phone. 

“I did,” the voice on the other end of the line said and her breath caught in her throat a bit. She hadn’t even looked at the number or the name on the front, had just swiped her thumb and held it up to her ear and continued to have a conversation with her kid. “And I’m usually pretty good about keeping my promises.”   
  
“Usually?” Emma asked, leaning up against the counter as Henry waited a few feet away, determined to get confirmation on his dessert choices that night. 

“I’d lean towards a majority, at least,” Killian said and she could hear the smile in his voice. “In the case of the much-debated pie, however, I’d lean towards one hundred percent.”   
  
“That’s a lot.”   
  
“I’m not looking for an out, Swan,” he said. There was a sound in the background – a creaking that sparked something familiar in the back of Emma’s brain. 

“I know you’re not. I’m just saying that one hundred percent is a lot to lord over a kid.”   
  
“There’s no lording.” The sound was back again, the squeaking in the background and Killian muttered something underneath his breath. And then there was a slam and more muttering and then it hit her – it was his oven. 

The one he’d made middle-of-the-night breakfast in and on – the one in his apartment and not his restaurant. The one where, she had a sneaking suspicion, he was, one hundred percent, making pecan pie for her kid. 

At 11:05 in the morning. 

“Are you stress-baking right now?” she asked, eyes darting towards Henry who was still waiting for confirmation that he’d be fed some sort of dessert later. 

“The only stress involved in this is that the oven in my apartment is an ancient piece of garbage. Other than that, though, no, I’m not. Just generically baking.”   
  
“Generically baking?”   
  
“You repeat things a lot in the morning, have you noticed that?”

She almost shot back that he had very limited experience with her in the morning, but remembered that Henry was only standing a few feet away and, somehow, still had no idea that his mother hadn’t slept in their apartment on Friday night. 

“Yeah, something like that,” Emma mumbled. 

“Ah, there’s a twelve-year-old nearby isn’t there?” Emma hummed in confirmation and Killian laughed softly before – it sounded like – kicking his oven. Hard. “Well, tell him that there’ll be pie if this piece of garbage oven doesn’t completely fuck it up. Except maybe leave out the  _ fuck _ part, so I maintain some semblance of responsible adult in this conversation.”   
  
“Why didn’t you cook downstairs?”

“What?”   
  
“You own several very impressive ovens in your very impressive restaurant,” Emma said slowly, pressing her back into the side of the counter she was leaning on. “Why wouldn’t you cook downstairs?”   
  
“Because then this pie would end up in the hands of a kitchen staff that would want it on the menu and I don’t want to do that.”   
  
“Why?”   
  
Killian sighed softly and, presumably, ran his hand through his hair. “It’s not that kind of dessert, Swan.” She didn’t say anything, pulling her lips back behind her teeth quickly and wondering when they’d delved into the deep end of emotional backstories and desserts. “Anyway,” Killian continued, brushing by her silence with all the subtlety of that kick he’d laid on his oven a few moments before. “I watched the show.”   
  
“You did?” Emma asked and she should stop being so stunned by all of this. Of course he did. 

“Of course I did,” he responded, as if he’d read her mind from three blocks away. “What did you think this phone call was about?”   
  
“I got distracted by pecan pie and you beating up your appliances.”   
  
“There’s pie?” Henry yelled, suddenly interested in the conversation again. Emma nodded and that’s all it took to set him off, talking about desserts and dinner and some sort of holiday menu he was apparently planning. 

“He sounds excited,” Killian muttered in the phone and something in his voice made Emma’s heart feel like it had grown several sizes in her chest. Or maybe her ribs were just getting tighter. Either way, it was difficult to breathe. 

“I think you’ve got a potential creative director on your hands or something,” she said. “He’s replanning your entire holiday menu.”   
  
“Ah, well I’ll have to take that into account. Tell him to bring his suggestions in triplicate later tonight and we’ll consider it.”   
  
“I’ll make sure to pass that right along,” Emma laughed, pouring the final remnants of that morning’s coffee into her mug. “You really watched the show?” she asked, frustrated by the serious sound of her voice, like this was some kind of  _ important  _ question.

He didn’t say anything for a moment, just took a deep breath and let it out slowly and it might have actually be the  _ most _ important question. 

“Of course I did,” Killian repeated. “It was, I was told, a very big deal.”

“The biggest.”   
  
“Then how could I miss that?”   
  
“It was good,” Emma said softly – Henry back in his room after pie confirmation, no longer interested in her conversation at all. “I think we did good.”   
  
“Better than.”   
  
“You think?”   
  
“I watched it, didn’t I?”

Emma nodded, fully aware that he couldn’t see her. “It’ll probably help with the ratings for the next all-star thing too. Ruby mentioned something about using the holiday episode to promo Cupcake Wars or whatever’s next. I guess Zelena was super psyched about that too. We’ve apparently got good  _ chemistry. _ ”   
  
He scoffed slightly and Emma’s teeth tugged on her lip as she pushed herself onto the top of her counter. “That so?” Killian asked. “I’m glad to hear it.”   
“Right? Good to get confirmation from the people that  _ really _ matter.”  
  
His laugh filled her ears and for the first time in a very long time, Emma felt something that might actually be construed as hope shoot through her entire system. She’d get her timeslot back. She’d win this stupid all-star thing. She’d keep making Killian Jones laugh like that. 

And maybe the sky wouldn’t fall as a result. 

Henry yelled something from his room and something  _ dinged _ from Killian’s side and it was almost domestic and normal and this is probably what it  _ always _ should be like. Emma hoped this is what it always was like. 

“I think you’re being summoned by some sort of timer,” Emma said and he laughed again. 

“You don’t want over-caramelized pecans do you?”   
  
“God forbid.”   
  
“Exactly.”   
  
“What time do you want us there?”   
  
“That’s a loaded question.”   
  
“How so?”   
  
“Because if I say what I really want we’ll be bordering dangerously close to pushing and overwhelming and I’d rather avoid that if at all possible.”   
  
“You can push a little if you want,” Emma muttered and there was another clang – this one sounded like a dropped spoon. “Make sure you wash whatever you dropped before you use it again.”   
  
“I didn’t actually drop it.”   
  
“Ah, my mistake.”   
  
“You’re sure?” Killian asked. That, actually, might have been the most important question. That might have been  _ the  _ question. 

“Yeah,” Emma answered, no hint of a stutter or question in her voice. And certainty was a nice feeling. The timer went off again and Killian groaned and Emma slid off the top of the counter, making her way towards Henry’s room down the hall. “Go bake,” she said, smile practically carved on her face at this point. “We’ll see you later, ok?”   
  
Killian made a noise that sounded like agreement, mumbled slightly by what Emma assumed was the phone pressed against his ear with his shoulder. “The show was fantastic, love,” he said softly, the sound of a pan moving across the stove in the background. “Come whenever you want.”

They got to The Jolly at four – an hour and a half before dinner service started – and Henry ate three slices of pie and Emma wasn’t sure Killian stopped smiling once. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stuff happened and we talked about the stuff and we're still living in this painfully adorable world filled with Pecan Pie. Have I told you guys lately that I love you? I do. Your response to this story continues to blow my mind and I can't say how much I appreciate it. 
> 
> As always @laurnorder is the best and makes sure all of this makes sense. Come flail on Tumblr if that's your jam: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	24. Chapter 24

It was still freezing in the warehouse. 

Almost restaurant. 

Starting to actually look like a restaurant. 

He should start referring to it as a restaurant. And it was still freezing inside. 

“Marco,” Killian called towards the contractor, currently occupied with something construction-related on the other side of the very large soon-to-be dining room. “Are we eventually going to install heat in this building?”  
  
“Eventually,” Marco said, not lifting his head away from whatever he was hammering. Or building. 

“See,” Robin added, glancing up from his seat next to Killian. “Eventually we’ll be able to feel all of our extremities in this building. This absolutely enormous building. God, your heating bills are going to be extravagant.”  
  
“You were the one who suggested this building,” Killian sighed, stretching his legs out slightly and nearly tripping up one of Marco’s workers in the process. “In fact, you were also the one who suggested we come out here two days before Christmas to see the current construction updates to this building. I’m sure we’re in Marco’s way.”

The contractor put the hammer down – it was definitely a hammer – glancing over his shoulder incredulously at the pair of them. Killian had to admit they painted quite a picture between the two of them. Robin had knocked on his door that morning – two tiny packages balanced on his hip that turned out to be folded up lawn chairs he’d somehow bought in the twelve hours since he’d left The Jolly Roger the night before – and informed him that there was a car downstairs waiting to take them to Gowanus where they would sit for several hours and watch the construction updates on the building he was spending an exorbitant amount of money for. 

And also Robert Gold wanted to see them. 

Or him. 

Robert Gold wanted to see Killian. 

Robin was mostly there for emotional support – and he’d brought coffee. In addition to the lawn chairs. Killian appreciated all three things. 

“You’re not in my way,” Marco said, walking across the room and staring at the two of them with something that almost looked like amusement on his face. “At least not yet. I’ll let you know if that changes.”   
  
“You’re a pillar of patience, Marco,” Robin said, pouring more coffee out of the thermos he’d brought with them. He was very prepared. Killian shuddered to think of what the man would be like on a camping trip. 

Probably insufferable. 

“And Robert Gold appears to be a pillar of late,” Killian muttered, not even trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice. He was cold. And tired. And he hadn’t seen Emma in two days – filming another episode of The Kitchen and worrying about her time slot and dealing with seemingly never-ending meetings with Ruby and Zelena and some other network boss he’d never actually met. 

Henry had loved the pie. That was the week before. He’d eaten three slices and was gunning for a fourth when Emma had pulled his hand away, muttering something about  _ sugar intake _ and  _ too many calories for a twelve-year-old _ and Henry had shot him a conspiratorial smile like he should try and sneak him pie behind his mother’s back. 

He hadn’t. 

Killian was, at least, that responsible. 

He’d also sent them home with a full pie. 

Because he wasn’t a dessert savage. 

“Drink some more coffee,” Robin muttered, pushing the thermos into Killian’s arm with all the tact of someone who’d known him far too long and could probably read his mind at this point. “And go see Emma later tonight because you’re frustrating when you’re frustrated.”   
  
“That doesn’t make any sense.”   
  
“Drink some coffee, think about how the English language works and then talk to me.”   
  
“Ass,” Killian said, drawing a laugh out of Marco as he tugged the thermos out of Robin’s hand. “And Gold didn’t give you a timetable at all? Or any update on what he wanted to talk about? Or why he contacted you and not me? The man signing his checks?”   
  
“That was a lot of questions. Wasn’t that a lot of questions, Marco?”   
  
“Leave Marco out of this, we’ve already bothered him enough. I’m sure you’ve to something to build, right? Like tables or something?”   
  
“We order the tables,” Marco said. “They’re coming in a couple of weeks.”   
  
“We ordered tables? How much did that cost?”   
  
“Killian,” Robin sighed, sitting up straighter in the recently bought lawn chairs and drawing a line in the still-dirty floor with the heel of his shoe. “We’re not worrying about the cost of these things. You win the all-star stuff and the costs won’t matter.”

Killian’s eyes fell to the floor, shoulders slumping a bit in the chair that couldn’t really support his weight and tried to focus on the cup of coffee steaming in his hand. At least that was warm. Everything else felt cold. 

Because as soon as Killian had gotten in the car that morning he’d decided – or maybe he’d decided as soon as he’d handed Henry that pie and Emma had smiled at him and it felt like the only thing that had ever mattered. 

He wasn’t going to win. 

He was going to tell Gold. He was going to break the deal and probably rob a bank or find some priceless art to steal or have to cook until his  _ other _ hand fell off, but he was going to pay off the restaurant and he was going to do it right. 

He wasn’t going to beat Emma. 

Not like this. Not when she was so close to getting her show back. Not when she trusted him. 

Robin eyed him suspiciously, crossing his arms slowly and tilting his head with the slightest movement. It sounded a bit deafening. Even in that very loud, very unfinished construction zone. 

“I think I’ve got something to build,” Marco said softly, eyebrows pulled low and a slightly nervous tick on the side of his jaw. And then he all but sprinted towards the kitchen-area. Or where the kitchen was slated to be. 

Eventually. 

Maybe once they had installed some heat. 

“Now he’s got things to build,” Killian mumbled, eyeing the traitorous contractor as he disappeared behind the kitchen door. There was a door now. 

That seemed like a step in the right direction. 

“What are you doing?” Robin asked sharply, a look on his face that almost perfectly mirrored Roland when he was told he couldn’t go back in the kitchen or eat cheeseburgers for four straight nights. 

“Drinking lukewarm coffee and waiting for some guy I don’t really know to show up at my restaurant?”   
  
“Are we calling it a restaurant now? You used warehouse this morning.”   
  
“I think you’re deviating from your point.”

Robin sighed dramatically and Killian resisted the urge to vocalize the similarities between his friend and the seven-year-old who, just the night before, had pitched a small fit over the lack of  _ his _ pecan pie, unaware that he was just as allergic to pecans as ever. 

“I am,” he admitted. 

“Well, then go ahead and make it before the coffee gets ice cold.”   
  
“You’re giving up, aren’t you?”   
  
Killian narrowed his eyes, lifting up his chair and twisting to stare at Robin. “Giving up?”   
  
“On the all-star thing. You’re giving up. I mean you’ll cook and if you win, you win, but you’re not  _ actively  _ trying to win anymore, are you?”   
  
“Maybe,” Killian said evasively and Robin sighed again. 

“You’re an awful liar.”

“I’m a fantastic liar.”   
  
“Is that what you’re doing now?” Robin said, voice dripping with accusation and a knowing stare that made Killian want to push him and his tiny, foldable lawn chair over. “Lying to me about what you’re doing?”   
  
“I’m not.”   
  
“Then, that’s what’s going on? You’re giving up.”   
  
“That last one didn’t seem like a question.”   
  
“It wasn’t.” Killian groaned, pulling his body out of the chair and starting to pace, just a few inches away from Robin’s feet. “I really think you should tell her. For whatever that’s worth.”

“Tell who what?”   
  
“You’re an idiot.”   
  
Killian grinned, rocking back on his feet and running his hand through his hair and he was definitely enjoying this more than he should. He hadn’t wanted to come to Gowanus in the first place. If he was going to be forced to do this – and have  _ this _ conversation with Robert Gold face to face instead of over the phone like he’d planned – then he was going to banter with Robin and he was going to enjoy it. 

“I’m making no claims otherwise,” Killian said and Robin rolled his eyes. 

A gust of wind swept into the warehouse or almost restaurant and that seemed like some sort of sign because Killian felt like a chill rush down his spine when he turned to find Robert Gold standing in the would-eventually-be-a-door doorway, leaning on that absurd cane with a small smile on his face. 

“Mr. Jones,” he said, eyeing Killian with an unwavering stare that didn’t do anything to assuage the chill lingering in his lower back. 

“We should really focus on putting some heat in this place,” Robin muttered, drawing a shaky laugh from Killian as Gold walked into the warehouse. His cane, somehow, echoed across the room. “Or maybe we should have brought a space heater.”   
  
“The coffee should have lasted longer,” Killian shrugged. 

“Probably.”   
  
“Gentleman,” Gold cut in, stopping next to Killian and it didn’t look like he had blinked once on his walk across the room. “Thank you for meeting me here today.”

“What exactly is this about?” Killian asked. Robin scoffed quietly behind him and he could hear the sound of his foot in the dust and dirt and, possibly, a bit of loose floor as well. 

“I wanted to congratulate you on your win.”   
  
“That was weeks ago.” Robin muttered a few nonsense syllables and Killian glanced wide-eyed and just as frustrated as ever at his friend. “And we’ve talked about that whole ‘Mr. Jones’ thing. Killian is fine.”   
  
Gold nodded slowly, staring at him with a look in his eyes that made Killian feel like he was being surveyed somehow. “I wanted to congratulate you on your win,” he repeated, both hands lightly resting on the top of his cane. “And to add that that kind of performance is  _ exactly _ what we expect from you going forward.”

Killian’s eyes darted towards Robin – now sitting up stick-straight in his recently-bought lawn chair and eyeing Gold with his own brand of very pointed interest. “Excuse me?” Killian asked. 

Gold cocked one eyebrow at him, the side of his mouth tugging up into a smile that didn’t look remotely encouraging. Or complimentary. “We expect another win next month. In whatever competition is next. And you’ve agreed to that.”   
  
“No, we didn’t,” Robin cut in, standing up and walking a few steps to move next to Killian. His shoulder almost brushed against his and that seemed a bit too on the nose for the situation – Killian bit the inside of his lip. 

Gold widened his eyes slightly, looking at Robin as if he only just realized he was there. “We didn’t agree to that in anything that’s legally binding,” Robin continued. “You and Killian made a deal, sure, but it was just words. The only contract that exists here is the one that includes us buying this building from you and working with Marco. The rest was just between us. None of that was written down.”   
  
And, not for the first time, Killian was thankful Robin Locksley had worked his way into his life. Even if it meant being forced out to Gowanus against his will early in the morning and a seemingly endless stream of comments on his love life and requests for character references. 

“What exactly is it you’re saying Mr. Locksley?” Gold asked, voice dropping so it was barely above a whisper, hardly discernible over whatever Marco was building in the other corner of the room. 

Robin opened his mouth to answer, but Killian put his hand on his shoulder, taking a step in between him and Gold. “I’m not doing this anymore,” he said evenly. 

“This?”   
  
“I’ll finish the competition and if I win then fine, but I’m not going out of my way to try and meet some sort of standard you’ve set so I can save a couple of thousand dollars during this refurb. It’s not worth it.”   
  
He was going to punch that stupid eyebrow off Gold’s stupid face. And then he was going to snap that fucking cane in half. 

“And you’ve decided this since winning the last competition,” Gold said softly, not meeting Killian’s gaze. 

“Yeah.”   
  
“Well, I can’t say I’m not disappointed. I’d hoped you were smarter than that. Mr. Locksley’s correct, we didn’t have a legally binding deal as far as the network shows, but I thought it was something that could have been mutually beneficial to both of us. There was even an inquiry from one of the tabloids about doing a long-form feature on you early next year, something about your rise to the top of the culinary world in the city despite...well, you know.”   
  
Killian did know. 

He clenched his jaw tightly, Robin’s presence behind him weighing on the back of his mind, like he could feel the frustration rolling off his friend. Killian’s right hand wrapped tightly around his brace, Gold’s eyes darting down towards the prosthetic, that same, stupid smile still on his face. 

He knew. 

And he almost punched Gold again. 

Killian squeezed his eyes shut quickly – trying to think of anything but the self-assured, arrogant man in front of him – and was suddenly struck with a completely different picture. 

Emma. 

And  _ her _ hand wrapped around his brace, hair splayed out on  _ his _ pillow underneath her, the breathless sound she’d made when he’d kissed her, tasting like rum and, eventually, the middle-of-the-night breakfast he’d made. She’d stayed. The entire night, let those walls down for a few hours, tangled up in his sheets with his arms – and one hand – wrapped tightly around her. 

He hadn’t taken the brace off – they’d cross  _ that _ bridge eventually, maybe – and she hadn’t asked, but she’d stayed and that seemed like the biggest victory. And then he knew, without a shadow of a doubt – not that he’d really had many to begin with – that he didn’t need Gold or the deal or an in-depth feature in some tabloid. 

He had the food. 

He had the building – eventually he’d have tables and a door and, possibly, central heating. 

And, it seemed, he had her. 

That was enough. 

Gold widened his eyes – clearly waiting for an answer – and Killian licked his lips quickly before opening his mouth. “I do know,” he said slowly, like he was trying to wrap his tongue around every word and syllable, determined to get his point across. “And I know I’m some sort of jewel in your real estate crown or something ridiculous. Fine. That’s fine. I can still be that. And I’ll still cook, I’ll still be on TV, you can flash my name around to other prospective clients whenever and wherever you want. I couldn’t care less. But I’m not going out of my way to meet some criteria you set. I’ll pay you the money I owe you, I’ll pay you more a month if that’s what you want, but I won’t play this game anymore. It’s childish.”   
  
It seemed like the entire world stopped spinning for a moment – or at least everyone in the general vicinity of Killian, Robin and Gold. Marco wasn’t even trying to sand anything anymore, hammer forgotten on the floor and a slightly glazed expression on his face as he stared at the three men. 

Gold pursed his lips tightly, leaning on the cane and drawing a short line in the dirt at his feet. “Interesting,” he said softly and Killian chanced a glance at Robin who simply shrugged in response. 

“That so?” Killian asked. “You’ll still get paid.”   
  
“I’m not even remotely worried about getting paid. I’m simply saying it’s interesting that you’d want to hinder your own career like this.”   
  
Killian’s eyes narrowed a fraction of an inch and he heard Robin shuffle his feet behind him. “I’m not certain that’s true,” he said softly. 

“No?”   
  
“No.”   
  
“Then I’ll repeat myself,” Gold muttered. “It’s an interesting choice.”   
  
“I think we’ll be fine.”   
  
“Of course.”   
  
Robin kicked at a rock, bouncing it off the back of Killian’s shoe as he stared expectantly at Gold, waiting for the next thinly veiled comment on his choices and decisions regarding his own restaurant and money. 

He didn’t say anything, just kept leaning on his cane with that smug smile on his face and a knowing look that left Killian with a knot of anxiety in his stomach so tight he was positive several internal organs were being threatened. 

“Uh, Killian,” Marco said, cutting into the conversation with a slightly stuttering and clearly nervous voice. “There’s someone here to see you.”   
He glanced questioningly at Robin – who shrugged again, his own curious smile on his face. “Only Gina knew we were coming here,” he said. 

“Who is it, Marco?” Killian asked, glancing over Gold’s shoulder at the shadow leaning just inside the doorway. 

“Said his name was Nolan. He’s in a uniform.”

Killian took a deep breath through his nose, rolling his eyes towards the vaulted ceiling of the warehouse and Robin sighed so audibly he was surprised he hadn’t created a small dust storm with the power of his breath. 

“Seems you might be a bit distracted,” Gold said and Killian wondered, again, why they couldn’t have done this over the phone. “Remember what I said Mr. Jones. I think it’s probably in your best interest to remember the deal.   
  
And without another word he was gone – walking towards the doorway David Nolan was, apparently, standing in and leaving Killian and Robin to gape at that latest veiled threat he’d leveled them with. 

Marco was still standing nearby, eyes wide as he rolled back onto his heels and crossed his arms. “Killian,” he said again. “The police officer?”   
  
“What?”

“There is a police officer at the door wanting to talk to you.”   
  
“Oh, yeah, yeah, send him back. It’s, uh, it’s my girlfriend’s brother.” Marco nodded once, confusion turning into amusement on his face as he turned towards the door. Robin sounded like he was choking on air. “You going to be alright there?” Killian asked, looking over his shoulder at his friend. “Because I don’t know CPR or anything.”

“You don’t know CPR? Isn’t that like a restaurant requirement?”   
  
“Will knows. So does Ari. We’re covered on multiple fronts.”   
  
“And so are you apparently, with labels and definitions and spending thousands of dollars of our money for some girl.”   
  
Killian stared at Robin for a moment – the sound of David arguing about the mandated hard hat he had to wear on a currently active construction site lingering in the back of his mind like it was white noise behind him – and tried not to immediately become some sort of emotional font in the middle of that same currently active construction site. 

“She’s not just some girl,” Killian said, staring at his shoes. 

He saw Robin move, two steps towards him and his hand on his shoulder before Killian even lifted his head. “I know,” he answered. “I know she’s not.”   
  
“It’s your money too. I should have asked.”   
  
“Probably,” Robin chuckled. “But I agree with you. We watched on Sunday, you know. And you guys were good together. Really good. Even Gina thought so. She thinks Zelena’s going to give Emma her time slot back.”   
  
“She better,” Killian grumbled, drawing another laugh out of Robin. 

“She will,” he said, the certainty in his voice helping to loosen that knot of anxiety wrapped around one of Killian’s intestines. “She deserves it. So, it’s ok. We’ll rebudget and we’ll figure it out and Gold can fuck off. Him and his tabloid contacts. Like you’d ever do a feature story like that anyway.”   
  
Killian’s mouth hung open and he didn’t even turn around when he heard David’s footsteps approaching behind him. “Thank you,” he said seriously, Robin’s hand still clamped tightly on his shoulder. 

“Don’t. You don’t have to do that. You’ve kept my family feed for the last five years. You’re, quite possibly, my son’s favorite person. And I know she might not show it very often, but even Gina appreciates everything you’ve done for her and her career. So, if the one thing I have to do in return is reconfigure a budget so that your  _ girlfriend _ can get her time slot back and you can keep being as happy as you’ve been for the last few months, then I’ll do that, no questions asked. Except, you know, maybe let me tell Gina.”

Killian barked out a laugh, shaking his head and stuffing his hand into his pocket. “Deal,” he said. 

“Deal.”   
  
“Killian?” David’s voice cut through the warehouse and he spun on the spot, eyebrows halfway up his forehead by the time he came face to face with Emma’s older brother. 

“Hey,” he said slowly. Robin walked up behind him again – like he was flanking him or something. “What are you doing here?”   
  
“Yeah,” David laughed, flicking his fingers together quickly before finishing his thought. “To be honest, I’m not entirely sure.”   
  
“No?”   
  
“Well I can’t exactly pretend like I was in the neighborhood could I?” Killian shook his head slowly, straightening his shoulders a bit. David sighed, his entire body moving with the movement as he dragged the air back into his lungs. “You think we could talk somewhere? Unless you’ve got stuff to do. I don’t know what you’re schedule’s like.”   
  
Killian’s eyes darted towards Robin quickly – some unspoken conversation that, somehow, made him feel a bit better about a  _ private _ conversation with soon-to-be-detective David Nolan. “Sure,” he said, stepping back towards the doorway. “You mind going back outside? It’s going to be pretty loud in here.”   
  
“If it means I get to take this ridiculous hard hat off, then I don’t mind going outside.”   
  
“Ok.”

He walked around David, resisting the urge to run his hand through his hair or grip the top of his brace tightly and pushed open the tarp that had been staple gun’ed across the doorway again. They stood in silence for a few excruciating moments, each of staring at their respective feet and Killian tried to ease the tension in his shoulders. 

“So, uh, a little out of your precinct aren’t you, officer?” Killian asked, tugging the front of his jacket together. It was snowing.

“Just a bit,” David laughed and that seemed like a victory – the sarcasm hit its mark and that was a good starting point for  _ whatever  _ this was. “Listen,” he said sharply and Killian’s eyes widened, standing at attention whether he wanted to or not. Some things never changed. “I wanted to talk to you.”   
  
“So I gathered.”   
  
“I’m serious.”   
  
“What can I do for you David? It probably wasn’t easy to get out here, so I assume there’s some sort of major point you wanted to make.”   
  
David narrowed his eyes pointedly, shifting the belt around his uniform pants and Killian tried not to roll his eyes when he adjusted his holster. “I wanted to apologize.”   
  
Well, he hadn’t been expecting that. 

“For what?”  
  
“Take your pick,” David shrugged. “The background check, being an asshole for the last few months, acting like you were somehow going to show up and, by default, hurt my sister and her kid. I just worry about Emma a lot, more than I should, honestly, because no one knows better than me that she can take care of herself. But, uh, well, this is different. You and her. It’s different.”   
  
The knot loosened slightly – replaced with something that felt like a  _ lurch _ and Killian just raised his eyebrows in response. “She’s happy,” David said simply and the knot was gone. 

“I’m glad,” Killian said. “That’s kind of the point.”   
  
“It hasn’t really been easy for her.”   
  
“I know that.”

“Do you?” David asked, voice flush with disbelief. “All of it?”   
  
Killian tilted his head and narrowed his eyes a bit. “What do you mean?”   
  
David sighed again, rolling his head between his shoulders until his neck audibly cracked and he stared up at the clouds like they would provide an answer to the question Killian had asked. “It’s not really my place.”   
  
“You’re right,” Killian agreed. “It’s not.”   
  
And that seemed to catch David by surprise. “You don’t want to know? Aren’t you curious?”   
  
“Sure I am, but that’s Emma’s job, not yours. So if you came out here to lord some information over me and try and prove that I don’t know her as well as I think I do, I’m afraid you’re going to come up short on that front. She can tell me in her own time.”   
  
David tapped his fingers on the top strap of his holster, lips twisted thoughtfully and eyebrows pulled low. “You tell her about this?” he asked.

“This what?”   
  
“This thing you’ve got going on with Gold.”   
  
“What do you know about that?”   
  
“I’m very good at running incredibly complete background checks.”   
  
“I’m sure the criminals of the city quake in their boots at the approach of Detective Nolan.”   
  
David’s eyes widened and the frustration was as clear as if it had somehow slapped Killian across the face. “He’s not a good guy, you know. This Gold guy.”   
  
“I’ve realized that.”   
  
“How did you end up here?”   
  
“You’re going to have to be more specific.”   
  
“How did you end up expanding your restaurant to one of Gold’s buildings?” David sighed. “You know he’s been investigated by the department a couple of times.”

“So I’ve heard. But it’s a good space and a good location and we wanted to expand, so here we are. He’s just the owner of the building. That’s it.”   
  
“Why was he here?”   
  
“Am I being questioned, Detective? Should I have a lawyer present? My partner’s inside, he could come out too if you’d like.”   
  
David sighed again, rolling his eyes. “This apology isn’t going the way I had planned.”   
  
“Feels a bit more like an inquisition.”   
  
“They always said I was very good at interrogating suspects.”   
  
“Is that what I am? A suspect?”   
  
“No,” David admitted. “But you’re dating my sister and I know she stayed with you after the party and she’s  _ never _ done that. Ever. So, I’m going to ask my questions and no one is suggesting you’re legally obligated to answer them, but it might make all of this a bit easier for everyone if you did.”   
  
Killian brushed his hair out of his eyes – snow falling on his feet in the process – and dragged his thumb across the back of the prosthetic, trying to remember the last time he’d had a conversation like this one. 

Never. 

And he’d never been more happy to have a conversation like this one. 

Because it meant Emma had a family and people to defend her, people who, might, love her as much as he did. 

Huh. 

He shouldn’t have been surprised by the realization – certain he’d been in love with her from the moment she walked onto the prep kitchen set for those all-star promos months ago – but it was a strange epiphany to come to under the glare of David Nolan and a few feet away from a restaurant that may, now, be completely outside the realm of his financial ability. 

But then he remembered the way she felt next to him, hair in his face when he woke up and the electric shock that had gone through his entire system when she crawled out of bed and walked into his kitchen in his shirt. 

He loved her. 

More than the food. More than the restaurant. More than anything. 

“Gold was here because he and I had a deal, in addition to refurbing the warehouse and paying rent on the building that, if I won the network all-star thing he’d cut back on costs. I told him I wasn’t interested in doing that anymore.”

“Why?” David asked, hardly waiting for Killian to finish talking before he asked his follow-up.

“You know why.”   
  
“I’d love to hear you say it.”   
  
“Because of Emma. Because if I win then she won’t and I want her to win.”   
  
“More than you want to win?” Killian nodded, trying to swallow down the small ball of  _ emotion _ that seemed to have taken up residency in the back of his throat. “Huh,” David muttered, taking another deep breath. 

“What did you expect exactly?”   
  
“I have no idea. Not that though.”   
  
“She deserves to get her show back. And I don’t care about the money or Gold or…” he trailed off, voice catching on that emotion still lodged in his throat. 

“What?” David prompted. 

“I just care about her,” Killian said, rushing over the words like he was running a 100-yard dash. “I want her to be happy. I was told, that’s kind of the point.”   
  
“The show was really good on Sunday,” David said. “You two were good together.”   
  
And Killian heard the rest of it – what he hadn’t actually said, the apology David couldn’t quite bring himself to say. They  _ were _ good together – good enough that Killian, truly, didn’t care about the restaurant or Gold or the money. 

He just wanted Emma to be happy. 

“Thanks,” Killian said. “I was glad I could help.”

David nodded slowly. “You did. Or have. And not just with the show. She really is happier than I’ve seen in a long time. So is Henry. Mary Margaret and I have always tried to be everything for both of them, but, well, I think this is good. You and Emma and Henry. I think it’s really good. For all of you.”   
  
“I do too.”

“Good, good,” David said quickly, muttering over the words like he was half saying them to himself. “Listen, I really did come here to apologize. Mary Margaret’s been bugging me about it for ages, since Halloween. So I’m sorry about that. And I’m sorry for telling Emma about your brother and not trusting you and a whole slew of vaguely other high-school type things that were completely out of line.”

Killian was freezing – it was starting to get windy  _ with _ the snow now despite the line of warehouses around him, there wasn’t much to real block the air blowing off the canal. He looked up at David, slightly wary expression plastered on his face, and tried not to think about how cold it was. Or had been. 

There was a metaphor in there somewhere. 

“It’s alright,” he said, ignoring David’s soft  _ huff _ of disagreement. 

“You’ve got quite a support system in Mary Margaret, you know.”   
  
“Your wife clearly has very good taste.”   
  
David let out a noise that was somewhere between a laugh and a groan and smiled at Killian. “Well, she’s not wrong. You might not be the horrible guy I’ve painted you out to be in my head. You might almost be a good guy.”   
  
“Almost,” Killian agreed. “I’m growing on you, I can tell.”   
  
“Don’t push it.”

“You want some coffee?” Killian asked, nodding back towards the tarp-covered doorway behind him. “For some reason Robin brought two thermoses.”   
  
“That’s an awful lot of coffee.”   
  
“He’s nothing if not consistently prepared.”

“So I can see,” David laughed. “Thanks for the offer, but I should probably get back to the city. I can only claim to be on lunch for so long. But, uh, before I do, I wanted to ask you something.”   
  
“Curious about my tax returns? Social security number?”   
  
“Nothing like that,” he said, shooting a glare Killian’s way. “I wanted to ask you about Christmas.”   
  
“Christmas?”   
  
“You know like the holiday in two days?.”   
  
“I’m familiar with it.”   
  
“Well, Mary Margaret is cooking and my mom is coming down again, which has Mary Margaret completely stressed out, but it’s kind of a tradition. And Emma makes all the vegetables and they’re all obscenely fancy and vaguely French, but they’re delicious and Henry and I play video games all day.”

“Sounds nice.”   
  
“It is. That’s why I’m telling you that you should come. For dinner. At least.”   
  
“What?” 

Killian’s teeth were chattering a bit now, the pain in his jaw a stark contrast to the small little fire that seemed to have erupted over every other inch of his skin. They closed The Jolly on Christmas – and for the last few years he’d spent the morning with Robin and Regina and Roland, trying not to be too obviously delighted by the seven-year-old’s absolute fascination with presents and the old claymation TV specials. But that only lasted a few hours and then the entire Locksley clan went farther uptown to see Regina’s mother and Killian had no interested in being part of that – ever. 

Ariel and Eric had tried to get him to come to their apartment for dinner the last few years, but the prospect of having to deal with her father and his uncle and questions as to why the two of them hadn’t started having kids yet was also something Killian didn’t really want to encounter on a holiday that, once upon a time, had meant  _ something _ to him. 

So he’d go home after Roland had opened his last gift and eaten dinner by himself and, like clockwork, wondered what Liam would have said if he could see him. 

Probably some sort of snarky comment about  _ putting yourself out there _ and  _ family and friends. _  And just thinking about that made Killian’s heart clench in his chest. 

“I think you should come,” David said pointedly, breaking into Killian’s sidetracked mind and vaguely depressing stream of consciousness. 

“I’ll think about it,” he mumbled. 

“You have to work?”  
  
“No. We close on Christmas. I’m not a monster. I know people have families.”   
  
“You could too.”   
  
Killian’s jaw ticked again and he pulled his eyes away from his shoes to stare at David, meeting his nervous expression with one of his own. “I’ll think about it,” he said again. 

David sighed softly, but nodded, pushing his hands in his pockets. “Alright, well, I’ve got to get back.”   
  
“Ok,” Killian said, nodding towards David as he made his way back to the patrol car parked a few feet away. He shivered slightly when the car drove away. 

* * *

He stood in front of the steps of David and Mary Margaret’s building, a pie in one hand and his prosthetic pushed in his jacket pocket. And an entire pack of butterflies in his stomach.

Maybe he shouldn’t have come. 

Maybe she didn’t want him to come. 

She hadn’t said anything, hadn’t even so much as  _ mentioned _ Christmas, let alone ask him to come to her family dinner at her brother’s apartment. 

David had sent him the address earlier that afternoon – while Killian had been sitting in the middle of a wrapping paper mountain courtesy of Roland Locksley – and he didn’t know, even then, if he was going to go. 

He didn’t know until Regina grabbed his arm while he was putting on his jacket a few hours before, a  _ look _ on her face that almost made him recoil instinctively. “What’s going on?” Killian asked, doing his best to keep his voice light. 

“I think you should go,” she said.

“Go where?”  
  
“To Emma’s. Obviously.”   
  
“How do you know about that?”   
  
Regina rolled her eyes at him, as if to say that she knew  _ everything _ and Killian wasn’t convinced she didn’t. “Ruby told me.”   
  
“How does Ruby know?”   
  
“I didn’t ask.”

“Of course not.”   
  
“Don’t get snippy with me. I’m trying to be encouraging.”   
  
“And doing a fantastic job.”   
  
Regina rolled her eyes again, adding a dramatic sigh for good measure and smacked the arm she’d been holding tightly just a few moments before. “Go. You should go.”   
  
“Emma never even asked me,” he said, not entirely sure what he was arguing. “Her brother did.”   
  
“Which is exactly why you should go.”   
  
“Explain that one to me.”   
  
“He’s trying to  _ prove _ something. That you’re part of this or however you want to phrase it. And Emma’s terrified also. That’s why she didn’t ask. The possibility of a ‘no’ is more than enough to keep her quiet.”   
  
Killian stared at Regina – the small, encouraging smile on her face taking him back for a moment. And he barely even noticed when Roland ran into his leg, trying to show off the model pirate ship he’d practically ripped out of its box earlier that morning. Killian bent down reflexively, pulling Roland up until the boat was sailing the high seas of the back of his leather jacket, Roland muttering about first mates and captains and buried treasure in his ear. 

“You think she’s terrified?” Killian asked. 

Regina nodded. “Of course she is. As much as you are.”   
  
He’d decided to go then. 

So, there he was, close to freezing with a pie in his hand and his lower lip tugged between his teeth. Killian yanked his hand out of his jacket pocket, buzzing the apartment and yanking open the door when the lock clicked open. 

It felt like he walked up the stairs and down the hall in slow motion – trying to keep his breathing even and the pie in his hand from falling on the floor. The door was already open when he walked around the corner, a body leaning up against the frame and he would have been able to spot that smile just about anywhere. 

The stupid pack of  _ whatever _ in his stomach seemed to exist for an entirely different reason now. 

Emma pulled the door shut behind her, meeting him halfway down the hallway with ducked eyes and a soft laugh that seemed to cut right into him. “I would have asked if I’d known you wanted to,” she said, forgoing the preamble and catching Killian off guard. 

“What makes you think I wouldn’t have wanted to?”   
  
She lifted her eyes, gaze darting over the pie and Emma’s smile got more pronounced as Killian tried not to beam like an idiot at her. “That’s a good question,” she mumbled. “David said he went to the warehouse.”   
  
“He did,” Killian agreed, hoping David didn’t also report on what exactly had happened at the warehouse. “Apologized for the background check.”   
  
“Finally,” Emma grumbled and the frustration in her voice made him smile more than it probably should have. 

“You don’t have to be mad at him, Swan. He was just trying to protect you.”   
  
“I don’t need him to do that.”   
  
“I don’t doubt that.”   
  
Emma’s eyes snapped up – like she was surprised he believed she could take care of herself and her son. “Yeah?” she asked. 

“Of course.”   
  
“You brought pie?”

“I made pie,” Killian corrected softly. 

“Of course,” Emma said, repeating his words back at him. “More pecan?”   
  
Killian shook his head. “Didn’t want Henry to get sick of it. Chocolate eggnog. Seemed pretty festive.”   
  
“It is,” Emma said softly, like making chocolate-eggnog pie was some sort of declaration of culinary-based love. 

It might have been. 

“Although,’ she added, hand reaching out to trail along the arm of his coat. “I don’t know that he could get sick of the pecan pie. He liked it a lot.”

And it felt like they weren’t really talking about Henry or dessert options. 

But maybe he was reading too much into it. 

“I should have asked you to come,” Emma said, lips just a breath away from his and Killian was only a few moments away from dropping the pie on the floor. “I wanted you to come, to be here, I was just…”   
  
“Nervous?”   
  
“Terrified.”   
  
“You don’t have to be. I wanted to be here.”

“I’m glad.”

She moved quickly, surging up on tiptoes and the only warning he got – gripping the pie tightly in his right hand – were Emma’s fingers in his hair before she caught his lips and kissed him in the hallway outside her brother’s apartment. Again. 

He couldn’t move his own hand – too preoccupied with keeping dessert off the ancient carpet underneath their feet – and for one crazy moment Killian was stock-still in front of her, only his lips moving against hers. And then he couldn’t quite bring himself to  _ not _ be touching her – even if it wasn’t really him. 

He moved his left arm, prosthetic resting on the small of her back and tugging Emma closer to him until her entire body was molded against his chest and if she was the pecan pie in this metaphor, he was positive he’d never get sick of her. 

She pulled away from him far quicker than he would have liked, but her eyes were bright and she was smiling and her voice was just a bit breathless when she spoke again. “You want to come inside?” she asked. “David and Henry are playing some game that I don’t understand at all and Ruth is asking M’s about colors for the baby’s room and it’s a disaster, but the food will be good at least.”

Emma moved slightly – the bottom of her shirt riding up and the fingers of his left hand brushed against her skin. She didn’t move, didn’t jump back, just stood there waiting for an answer, a hopeful look on her face. 

“I’ve got no doubt the food is delicious, love,” he said, drawing a low laugh out of her. 

The door opened a few feet down the hallway as David leaned through the frame and shot an entertained look their direction. “You two done doing whatever it is new couples do in abandoned hallways?” he yelled. “Because Mary Margaret said the food is ready.”

Killian laughed and Emma groaned, forehead resting against his shoulder. “Come on, Swan,” he said, slinging his arm around her shoulder and tugging him with her towards her brother. “Don’t want to keep Mary Margaret waiting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...that's going to be problematic. But with more pie! As always, the response to this story has just been the absolute best. @laurnorder is the best and fixes all my typos without question. 
> 
> Come flail with me: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	25. Chapter 25

“You have a scar here,” Emma said, finger tracing across the apple of his cheek, the light line barely visible unless she squinted at it.

Killian’s eyes darted towards hers, but he didn’t move his head, face trained towards the TV in her living room, hand resting on her shin. Her legs were perpendicular to his, resting on top of his thighs, and her entire body was pulled tight against his side.

They were supposed to go out.

She was wearing a dress. She’d done her hair.

That seemed like a lost cause now – several hours after he’d walked into the apartment and kissed her so thoroughly that Emma had lost track of time and possibly space and, certainly, any concern about the state of her hair on New Year’s Eve.

She should tell him.

_It._

She should tell him _it._

Because she was fairly convinced she was in love with him. Or loved him. Or whatever version of the verb fit best at the time. It was a bit all-encompassing.  

No matter how the grammar played out, Emma loved him more than she thought she could – more than she had loved just about anything besides Henry in her entire life. She couldn’t quite figure out when it started – somewhere around being strapped to each other in the network kitchen, she thought – but she’d come to, finally, realize it completely when he showed up in front of David and Mary Margaret’s apartment door the week before, a pie in hand and that nervous, hopeful smile on his face.

The one that managed to work into every single one of her nerve endings.

And take up residence in the back of her mind like it belonged there.

She should tell him.

She hadn’t.

Because it was too soon or too improbable or a slew of other reasons that she listed to herself every night before she fell asleep. And there were a lot of them. There were plenty of reasons to believe it couldn’t be real.

But, for the first time, Emma wasn’t interested in any of them.

She wanted –  _needed_ – it to be real.

Killian finally turned his head, shifting next to her and, somehow, managing to pull Emma closer to him. “There are several different theories out on how that happened,” he said softly, smile tugging on the corners of his mouth.

“Weren’t you there? Shouldn’t you know?”  
  
He laughed softly, lips brushing over the top of her head. “True, but the first theory is a bit murky. Liam claimed it happened when I about three, intent on trying to shave or something and I cut myself. But, the one I _actually_ remember came a bit later.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“And I was fourteen and we’d just moved into the new apartment uptown and we went to Central Park and I tripped on one of those giant rocks and cut my face half open. Nearly scared Liam to death. I had to get stitches and it cost a fortune. I think Liam liked to pretend that didn’t really happen.”  
  
“Why?” Emma asked, tugging her long-forgotten hair over her shoulder and sitting up a bit straighter.

“We’d barely even been on our own a year and I was already in the hospital. He blamed himself. He always did that. Thought he had to make sure I was protected at every moment of every single day. That’s why he came up with the alternate scar theory. Or at least I think so. To take some of the pressure off.”

“It must have been hard,” Emma said, fingers threading through the back of Killian’s hair without so much as a second thought. Her dress was a wrinkled mess, one side pushed up as his hand trailed up and down her thigh. She’d never even put her heels on. “For both of you.”  
  
“Harder for him, I’m sure. You know he never complained once. Not to me at least. He just figured it out. Every single time. He’d mutter something about rising to the occasion and meeting challenges head on and then he’d just do it.”  
  
Killian took a deep breath, chest moving against Emma’s side with the effort of it, and he closed his eyes softly.

She should have told him then.

Should have promised he wasn’t alone and that he could have a family again and she understood what it was like to think you’d lost everything.

She didn’t.

Those walls were still, sometimes, even too tall for Emma to scale.

“I never understood how he didn’t hate me,” Killian muttered and Emma pulled her head away quickly, eyes wide. “At least not a little.”  
  
“Of course he didn’t,” Emma said, trying to infuse every single letter with all the faith _she_ had in Killian Jones.

“You don’t know that, Swan.”  
  
“I do.” He raised one eyebrow quizzically, tilting his head and twisting his lips in a way that only made Emma want to push her mouth against them – hard. “And,” she added, trying to keep the shake out of her voice when she spoke. “You’ve done exactly what he would have done. You’ve met every challenge, risen to every occasion. You’ve got two restaurants! You’re probably going to win Cupcake Wars too.”  
  
His eyes darkened for a moment – and Emma got the distinct impression that she was missing something – but it was gone before she could question it completely. “What?” she asked. “All of that was true.”  
  
“That seemed dangerously close to a compliment,” he laughed. “If I didn’t know better, I think you almost believe in me, Swan.”  
  
Emma rolled her eyes – mostly to fight off the wave of emotion she was practically drowning in. “Yeah, something like that.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“Ruby’s going to kill us,” she said, fingers dropping to his neck and Emma absolutely appreciated the hiss of breath he took when that happened. “We were supposed to be uptown hours ago.”  
  
Killian laughed softly, leaning down to nip his teeth against the side of her jaw and that was hardly playing fair. No wonder they hadn’t left the apartment. It might have also had something to do with the fact that they hadn’t been completely alone since that night after the network holiday party and while Emma loved her kid more than anything else in the entire world, she also didn’t mind having an apartment to herself.

And her boyfriend.

“I think she’ll survive,” Killian mumbled, the words pressed into her skin. “Anyway, I doubt she’d be very happy if we did _this_ at Dorothy’s gallery.”  
  
“Maybe we should have called.”  
  
“Do you want to move?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Then Ruby can wait on that phone call. I’m sure she’s got plenty of other things going on.”  
  
“That’s probably true.”  
  
“It’s absolutely true.”  
  
She didn’t need much more convincing after that – although whether or not that had to do with the words or the way Killian’s lips felt against her neck, Emma wasn’t entirely certain.

It was probably the later.

Definitely.

“Weren’t Regina and Robin going to be there too?” Emma asked, words falling out of her mouth before she could stop herself. She didn’t want to go. She didn’t want to move an inch, didn’t want him to think that she wanted to move an inch – and yet she couldn’t stop the question, couldn’t quite stop the nagging worry almost teasing the back of her mind that this was too good to be true.

Killian hummed in agreement, the sound vibrating over Emma’s skin where his mouth was still pressed up tightly against her neck. It sent a shiver down her spine and he absolutely noticed _that,_  laughing softly when he felt her shaking against him.

“Cold, Swan?” he asked, voice low and meaningful and maybe that would be what stayed in the back of her mind from now on.

It had for the last week, since he’d shown up for Christmas and brought pie and a present for her kid. He’d gotten Henry a video game – something he was thrilled about that Emma was certain meant something to someone who also played video games. David had been impressed when he saw it.

Emma didn’t answer before his hand made its way farther up her thigh, pressing past several layers of tulle and fabric and she had to bite back a groan at the feel of his slightly calloused fingers on her skin. He smirked at her and the look on his face should have been annoying – all cocky and confident, like he knew _exactly_ what he was doing – but it was difficult to be frustrated when most of Emma’s concentration was focused on keeping oxygen in her lungs.

She sighed – a girlish, breathless sound that she was almost positive she’d never made before in her life – when his fingers pushed past one final layer of fabric and he was exactly where she wanted him, grinning and exuding confidence and twisting just above her on the couch in her living room.

And it took all of her willpower and then some to tell him they had to move.

“Killian,” she mumbled, struggling to say his name. He muttered against her again, fingers twisting up slightly and Emma’s sharp intake of air actually hurt. “Killian, we’ve got to move. We can’t...not here...Henry…”

She trailed off again – eyes squeezing shut when his thumb brushed across her and she was resting all her weight on her forearms now, leaning back at an angle that, in any other circumstance, would have been uncomfortable.

It was the opposite now.

And she needed him to move.

Killian stopped, pulling back slightly to stare at her and maybe they didn’t have to move – not when he was looking at her like that and everything felt so good and Emma was standing on some sort of metaphorical cliff, waiting for that one final push.

He kissed her again, teeth teasing her bottom lip and Emma’s hands dug into his hair like they were an anchor she was trying to cling to. Her hips moved of their own volition, pushing up in some desperate need for friction or _something_ and Killian groaned into her mouth and, _fuck,_ they needed to move.

He pulled away from her, moving off the couch in what looked like slow motion, knees bending when he stood up and tried to take a deep breath. And it seemed to put them on slightly more even ground that he couldn’t seem to do it either.

Emma stared up at him – eyes wide and mouth still slightly open – with her dress pushed up past the top of her thighs. Killian grinned at her, eyes roaming up her body and around her waist and back up to her lips with the kind of intensity Emma was fairly certain only existed in stories and movies and, certainly, not in real life.

Not in her life.

He held his left hand out to her, smile faltering for just a moment when she stared, but she felt him breathe easier when her fingers wrapped around the plastic, pulling herself off the couch and back in front of him.

She didn’t let go of his hand as she tugged him down the hallway, leading him to her room. Or at least she tried to lead him to her room. Killian stopped suddenly just outside the doorway, pushing Emma up against the hallway wall and resumed his previous goal of trying to kiss every inch of her neck.

Her leg wrapped around the back of his calf, tugging him closer to him and they were a jumble of hips and movement and hands trying to pull clothes off each other. She heard her zipper tug before she felt it, too preoccupied with yanking his shirt out of the tuck and pulling his belt out of the loops of his pants.

They’d pick it up later.

Emma’s dress pooled around her waist as Killian tugged the sleeves down her arms, sliding her against the wall and through the doorway of her room. She was nervous she was going to rip the buttons off his shirt, but managed to calm her very anxious fingers when she got the first few open without a causing some sort of sewing emergency.

She all but collapsed on the edge of the mattress, tugging on the cuffs of Killian’s shirt and he flashed a smile as he shrugged the fabric off, groaning slightly when her fingers danced along the top of his pants. “You are going to be the death of me, Swan,” he mumbled, practically sighing out the words as his teeth pressed into his bottom lip.

And _that_ might be the death of her.

“Somehow I think you’ll survive,” Emma said, darting her eyes back up to him. Killian pulled one eyebrow up – an exercise in control she wasn’t entirely interested in at the moment – and bent forward, pressing her back against the bed with his shoulder until he was hovering over her again. She might not survive.

She felt like a live wire or a TV that couldn’t quite find the right channel, balancing right on the edge of _something_ and she needed him to move again. Or move _with_ her again.

And she needed to get this dress off.

“Maybe,” he said and his voice shot through her entire system, pushing her farther up the mattress and yanking on the dress twisted around her hips. “Although, I suppose, there are worse ways to go.”  
  
“What a charmer.”  
  
“Always.”

She saw the dress fly over his shoulder and she was almost worried about the state of his lower lip when he bit down again, head falling forward when Emma’s fingers popped open the button of his pants and slid underneath the fabric.

“Always?” Emma asked, raising her eyebrows and widening her eyes meaningfully.

“I promise, Swan,” he said, hand moving back in between her thighs. And then he did start to move and Emma bit her tongue so hard it hurt.

And then nothing hurt and all she felt was _him_ and how much she wanted him and how much he wanted her.

He moved next to her, tugging her flush against his side and kissing behind her her ear, thumb trailing across her jaw. “I”m glad we didn’t leave,” she whispered, muttering the words mostly into his hair.

“That so?”  
  
“You doubting me, Lieutenant?”  
  
“Never.”  
  
It seemed like a bigger promise than what he’d just promised and Emma’s heart thudded so loudly she was positive Killian could hear it in the otherwise empty bedroom. She trailed her fingers up his arm, hand lingering at the top of his brace and she could feel his eyes following each movement. “What are you doing, Swan?” he asked softly.

“You didn’t take it off.”  
  
“When?”  
  
“You know, before,” Emma said, hoping he wasn’t going to make her actually say it. “The, uh, the last time.”  
  
He cocked one eyebrow at her – and that wasn’t fair, this was supposed to be _meaningful_ – laughing softly when Emma rolled her eyes at him. “Well, we were in a bit of a rush as I recall last time.”  
  
“True.”  
  
“I know there’s a ‘but’ to that sentence, go ahead and spit it out.”  
  
“But if we weren’t rushed and things were normal, would you have?”  
  
Killian pressed his lips together tightly and for one vaguely terrifying moment she thought he was mad – he was thinking. “Probably,” he said slowly, lips hardly moving like he was considering every letter in that one word. “It’s not always the most comfortable thing. I don’t sometimes though. It’s also a lot of effort.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
He nodded, leaning up on his elbow and glancing at her and if Emma didn’t know him better she’d assume he was actually being as sarcastic as he looked.

She knew him better.

“We’re supposed to be the most advanced medical society in the world and they can’t figure out a way to make not it feel like a vice at the end of my arm with no fewer than half a dozen different clips to hold it all together.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Emma said, trying to infuse several tons of emotion and sentiment into two words and one sentence.

“Don’t be, love. It’s all almost second nature now.”  
  
“I just want you to be comfortable.”  
  
“I am,” he said, widening his eyes and glancing down at her less-than-fully clothed body.

“You’re still wearing pants.”  
  
“Does that somehow impede my comfort?”  
  
“You tell me.”  
  
His eyebrows did something ridiculous and his eyes flashed at her and he found a way to get her even closer to him, every inch of skin she had pressed up against his. And by the time his pants were actually gone, she wasn’t certain she could have come up with a single word let alone continue to have a meaningful conversation.

It felt like hours later – the quiet covering them both as much as the blankets they were wrapped in – and Emma was bordering dangerously close to the edge of sleep, doing her best to keep her eyes open because they _absolutely_ couldn’t fall asleep here.

“You really wouldn’t mind?” Killian asked, chin tucked over the back of her shoulder and his arm wrapped tightly around her waist.

She couldn’t have turned around if she wanted, eyes snapping open to stare at the wall on the other side of the room. “Mind what?”

“If I took it off.”  
  
She figured out a way to turn at that, twisting her body around until she was face-to-face with him, eyes dark and staring at the tiny space of fabric in between them. “Of course not,” Emma said, meaning it completely.

And it looked like he was breathing for the first time.

Killian shut his eyes lightly, nodding as he pulled his hand in between them. “It’s not exactly pretty.”  
  
“No one’s hands are pretty.”  
  
“Swan.”  
  
“Killian.”  
  
“I’m serious.”  
  
“So am I,” she said, wrapping her fingers around his brace and tugging his hand towards her. “Here, let me help.”

His eyes widened for a fraction of a second – all blue and nerves and _hopeful_ – but he pressed his lips together tightly, the muscle in the side of his jaw ticking and didn’t say anything as she tugged and unclicked and tried not to let her frustration show on her face when medical science proved to be just a bit too advanced for her. She snapped the last clasp off and felt it loosen and Killian pulled his hand away, but Emma wrapped her fingers around his wrist, keeping him where he was. “Don’t move,” she said softly and he didn’t.

He didn’t even blink.

She pulled the hand away and Killian all but yanked it out of her grip, moving it to the nightstand next to him and Emma was positive he had drawn blood with how tightly he was chewing on his lip.

“Told you,” he said softly and her heart practically shattered at the sound of his voice.

Emma shook her head, fingers still wrapped around his wrist and he looked at her questioningly. She trailed her fingers over the end of his arm, feeling him stiffen underneath her, pulling him up to brush her lips over the scar that ran across his wrist. He muttered her name softly, pulling her flush against his chest and kissing her – hard.

And she was, suddenly, very grateful she’d made him take his pants off before.

They fell asleep together.

* * *

There was something pounding inside her head.

No.

That wasn’t right.

It wasn’t _in_ her head. It was outside her head. And outside the room she was in.

She was still in her room – an arm wrapped tightly around her waist and a soft, steady breath against the back of her neck.

And it all came rushing back.

New Year’s Day.

It was New Year’s Day. And they hadn’t gone out the night before, hadn’t even made it out of the apartment before they’d started making out like teenagers. She’d have to call Ruby and explain later.   
  
Or at least come up with some sort of story that Ruby couldn’t make fun of her for over the course of the next twelve months.

They’d never left – and they’d never left the bed either. They’d fallen asleep.

Together.

He didn’t leave.

The pounding was back – threatening to break down her bedroom door at this point – and, suddenly, something _else_ hit her. They’d never picked up Killian’s belt.

“Mom,” Henry yelled from the other side of the door. “Are you in there?”  
  
Killian moved behind her – woken up by the sounds of her twelve-year-old in the hallway – and Emma was nearly drowning in everything she _hadn’t_ been worried about the night before. “Swan?” he asked softly. “What’s going on?”  
  
“Mom! There’s a belt on the floor out here. Is this yours? It doesn’t look like yours. Are you awake?”  
  
She knew her breathing was bordering on erratic and she felt Killian’s hand tighten around her hip slightly. “Breathe, love,” he said, whispering the words in her ear so Henry couldn’t possibly hear him a few feet away. “It’s fine.”  
  
Fine.

It was fine.

It was going to be fine.

Because if he could do this – could fall asleep with his hand off and his arm wrapped around her and every emotion laid bare in the middle of her queen-size bed – then so could she. Emma twisted back around, careful not to roll on top of his wrist and smiled at him.

“You want me to climb out a window or something?” Killian asked, blue eyes flashing up at her. “Because I don’t know if I’m that coordinated.”

“You don’t have to climb out of anything. Although you should probably consider putting pants on before we go outside.”  
  
“I can do that,” he said softly, the emotion obvious in his voice as it settled into the pit of her stomach.

He pulled his arm away, only after brushing his lips across hers and Henry pounded the door again. “Mom! I’m starving. Can we make pancakes? Or you could make french toast if you really want. Can we just eat? Soon?”  
  
“You have a very impatient kid, Swan,” Killian laughed, tugging his pants back over his hips. His eyes got wide as he pulled the button closed, glancing over at Emma as she pulled out a t-shirt out of her closet.

“What?” she asked, amazed at how quickly her whole body could seize up with nerves.

“I only have my clothes from last night. And a belt that is, apparently, still in the hallway.”  
  
“Oh,” Emma said, a totally unhelpful response. “Oh! Wait, here.” She reached back up in the top corner of her closet, grabbing a t-shirt she couldn’t believe she still had and tossing over her shoulder to Killian.

He picked it out of the air with ease – a move made all the more impressive by the fact that his prosthetic was still sitting on her nightstand – and shook it, staring at it. “What is this, exactly?”  
  
What it was exactly – was a Kingsborough College t-shirt she’d bought David as a Christmas present her first year in school. And one he’d left at her apartment six months ago after he and Henry had staged some of cooking fiasco in her kitchen that required him to _hand wash_ the stupid thing in her sink.

“It’s a t-shirt,” Emma said simply, pulling the leggings she’d grabbed over her ankles.

“You just happen to have a guy’s t-shirt in your closet?”  
  
“Is that jealousy I hear?”  
  
Killian raised his eyebrows, taking two steps towards her and crossing the room in what felt like an instant, hands resting on her hips as he kissed her forehead. “Of course not, Swan, just pure curiosity.”  
  
“Yuh huh,” Emma mumbled, unconvinced, but not quite able to concentrate when he was standing shirtless in front of her. “I bought it for David and he left it here a couple of months ago and, you know, just put it on.”  
  
“Getting distracted?”

“I don’t have to answer that question.”  
  
“I’ll take that as a yes.”

She rolled her eyes dramatically, pulling her hair up into a ponytail that might help disguise what exactly had happened to it the night before. “Just put it on before you come out, ok?”  
  
The laughter fell off his face like it’d been dropped off the side of a cliff and he nodded seriously at Emma, pulling the shirt over his head and turning back towards the nightstand. “Give me a couple of minutes to put that on,” Killian said, nodding towards the prosthetic. “And then I’ll make food.”  
  
“You don’t have to make food.”  
  
“I think I did hear something about starvation in the hallway, love. Can’t have that.”  
  
“Of course not.”  
  
“Go, Swan,” he said, grinning at her from the edge of the bed and she heard the tell-tale clicks of his prosthetic moving back into place. “I’ll be out in a second.”  
  
Emma nodded slowly – nerves hitting in full force again.

It’d be fine.

It was fine.

It was good.

It was fine and good and Henry would be fine and good with all of it.

She repeated the mantra in her head for what felt like several hours as she walked down the hallway, Henry talking a mile a minute in the kitchen when her feet hit linoleum. “Hey,” he cried, turning as soon as he heard her approach, the refrigerator door still swung open. “Happy New Year! How was Ruby’s?”  
  
“Hey, kid,” she said, kissing the top of his head and earning a now-expected groan at the action. “Happy New Year to you too. Uh, we didn’t end up going to Ruby’s actually.”  
  
The refrigerator door slammed shut and Emma was, suddenly, meant with a very curious looking twelve-year-old. “What? Why not? Did something happen? Is something wrong?”  
  
“Slow down Henry,” Emma said and his eyes widened when she used his actual name. “Nothing’s wrong. But something did happen and, well, it’s a good thing. At least I think it’s a good thing.”  
  
“Mom,” he said, cutting her off quickly, reaching out to rest his hand on his forearm. And he suddenly looked so grown up – and so much like Neal – that Emma nearly broke down completely in the middle of her kitchen. “It’s fine.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“The belt in the hallway? Killian’s voice very clearly coming out of your room? I’m twelve. And I have eyes and ears. And I’m not stupid.”  
  
“I don’t think you’re stupid.”  
  
“Then you should tell Killian he can come out. He doesn’t have to hide.”  
  
“He’s not hiding,” Emma said quickly, arguing before she could stop herself. “He’s just, uh, getting ready.”  
  
Henry stared at her speculatively, waiting for an answer she wasn’t entirely ready to give. It didn’t seem right – to talk about his hand, or lack thereof, while he was just down the hall. Not when it had meant so much – to both of them – for him to take it off the night before.

“Getting ready for what?”  
  
Emma tried not to sigh too loudly, aware of the footsteps coming back down the hallway and the way Henry stood up a bit straighter in the middle of the kitchen, tugging on the ends of his fingers. “I was reliably informed that there were potentially starving human beings in this apartment,” Killian said, raising one eyebrow at Henry and resting his hand on Emma’s shoulder.

And it was so goddamn domestic.

And, possibly, perfect.

“There are Pop-Tarts in the cabinet,” Emma said and Henry’s eyes lit up as if a foil packet of Pop-Tarts was the peak of the culinary arts.

Killian groaned and Henry muttered _what_ and Emma was practically bursting at the seams with something that might have been classified as happiness. “Alright, we’re putting an end to this now,” Killian said, laughter cutting away at the attempted edge in his voice. “No Pop-Tarts. Not now. Not ever.”  
  
“No Pop-Tarts ever?” Henry asked, entire body sagging at the declaration.   
  
“Seems a little extreme,” Emma mumbled, earning a surprised look from Killian. “I’m just saying, if we’re running late and he’s got to get to school or something...Pop-Tarts can be a reasonable breakfast option.”

“Fine,” Killian sighed. “But only that very specific situation. And, unless I’m mistaken, we aren’t currently in that situation. You’re not actually on your way to school are you, Henry?”  
  
“I don’t think so.”  
  
“Then we’re not eating Pop-Tarts.” Henry rolled his eyes, but didn’t disagree. “We’re going to make something good. Go sit down Swan.”  
  
“What?” she asked, voice snapping on the word.

“Go sit down. We’ve got it, right Henry?”  
  
Her kid nodded enthusiastically, more excited to cook _whatever_ with Killian than he’d ever been at the prospect of helping her. “Are you kicking me out of my own kitchen?”

“Of course not. We’re going to make you breakfast.”  
  
Emma gaped at both of them – each with matching smiles on their faces and Henry’s hands stuffed into his pocket like he _was_ Killian – before shaking her head. “Henry can show you where some of the stuff is. The coffee’s in the cabinet above the pot.”   
  
“Was that a hint, Swan?”   
  
“Maybe.”   
  
“Wasn’t very subtle.”   
  
“It wasn’t meant to be.”   
  
Killian laughed, ducking his head to kiss her cheek lightly – and somehow _that_ didn’t draw a groan out of Henry. “Sit down, love. We’ve got it.”   
He nudged her back towards the living room and it was difficult to be frustrated at the prospect of her kitchen being seized away from her at some still-unknown hour of the morning when she was so busy being charmed by her boyfriend and her son.

That was a much nicer sentence than she would have originally thought.

In the end, getting kicked out of her kitchen wasn’t half bad – Emma watched the Rose Bowl Parade without anyone questioning why she was watching the Rose Bowl Parade, a cup of hot chocolate-coffee hybrid in her hand and her legs pulled up tightly underneath her. And thirty minutes later when a plate was handed to her, she couldn’t quite keep the smile off her face.

Pancakes.

They’d made pancakes.

“With chocolate chips,” Killian added, one side of his mouth pulled up into a dangerously attractive grin as he sat down next to her on the couch.

“And?” Henry prompted.

“And peanut butter chips,” Emma said, mumbling over the words as she tried not to choke on the piece of pancake in her mouth. “Was that your idea, kid?”

Henry nodded emphatically and, somehow, her smile got bigger. “He was insistent,” Killian added. “And I don’t know what you’ve been talking about this whole time, Swan. You’ve got plenty of food in that kitchen. I think you might just like showing up at my restaurant.”

She glanced at him – a self-satisfied smirk plastered on his face and she shouldn’t want to kiss him as much as she did when Henry was sitting in the only other chair in the living room. He wasn’t entirely wrong.

She did just want to show up at his restaurant – regularly.

And his food was also delicious.

But he didn’t need his ego stroked anymore.

“Thanks for the peanut butter,” Emma said, ignoring Killian’s comments entirely. He noticed, of course, smirk getting more pronounced by the moment, but didn’t say anything, just pressed his fork into the pancakes and kept eating.

“It’s your favorite,” Henry said, like it was obvious.

It was.  

She just hadn’t realized Henry knew that.

Or that he’d make sure Killian knew that.

Their identical smiles were practically blinding her at this point.

“Peanut butter, Swan? Really?” Killian asked, resting his plate on his knee and staring at her with something like amusement in his eyes.

“I like it,” she shrugged. “When I was a kid, the one time I went trick or treating with David and his friends, I made him give me all the Reese’s he got. Even the king size one he got from the Blanchard’s house.”  
  
“M&M’s gave out king size candy bars?” Henry asked, eyes going wide at the idea of such a thing.

“Her dad did.”  
  
“No wonder they wanted to name tiny-Nolan after him.”  
  
“He’s got his priorities straight,” Killian muttered and Emma couldn’t help the laugh that practically bubbled out of her. Henry looked at her like she was crazy.

She might have been.

Or maybe she was just happy.

Completely and ridiculously happy.

She didn’t add that peanut butter was cheap – cheap enough that she could actually pay for it those few days in between running away from the family number four and finding David in the alley – and filling, so she didn’t really have to eat much more than a sandwich to keep herself from getting hungry.

That seemed like it would have killed the mood.

And no one wanted the mood to be killed with the Rose Bowl Parade on.

Or when your boyfriend and son made you breakfast.

After your boyfriend had spent the night.

On New Year’s.

“Mom,” Henry said and his tone made it obvious it wasn’t the first time he’d tried to catch her attention. Emma’s head snapped towards him, eyebrows shooting up and Killian laughed softly next to her. “Do we have to watch this?”

“It’s almost over,” Emma answered, only lying a little. It was the same argument every year, a dedication to the parade that had been so ingrained in her she couldn’t remember a time she hadn’t found a way to watch it. Like _that_ was the start of the new year and not the clock hitting midnight.

The second family she’d lived with – the Swans – had watched it the only New Year’s Day she spent in their house.

And it stuck.

Henry sighed dramatically and Killian, somehow, seemed to pick up on the tension, glancing at the kid with something that must have been a _look_ because he didn’t say anything else about floats or over-the-top floral arrangements.

They watched the final thirty minutes of the parade together, eating pancakes with peanut butter chips in them and drinking coffee and/or hot chocolate.

It felt like a family.

Killian’s phone rang loudly – and, impressively, from Emma’s room – drawing a knowing look out of Henry and Emma did her best to silence him with an authoritative stare. Killian grinned at her, hand squeezing her knee when he stood up and jogged down the hallway, voice drifting through the apartment when he answered.

“Yeah, I’ll be there in a little while,” Killian said. “I don’t know. When I get there. Tell Eric to start cooking. He’s got a degree from CIA, Ari. I think he can handle getting things started. Half an hour. Tops. Your shoes are back underneath the hostess stand. I put them back there myself. Relax.”  
He walked back down the hallway, stuffing his phone in his back pocket as he came into the living room. “You gotta go?” Emma asked, sitting up a little straighter.

Killian shook his head quickly. “Nah, just Ari’s freaking out because we do this kind of big prix fix brunch and dinner thing on New Year’s and people are showing up before their reservation and nothing throws her off more than people showing up before their reservation.”  
  
“She seemed concerned about her shoes.”  
  
He raised one eyebrow at her and he should enter that into some kind of talent competition because he was almost _too_ good at it – or maybe it just worked really well with her. “She’s got her shoes back. It’s fine.”  
  
“So you’ve mentioned.”  
  
“You alright, Swan?”  
  
“Fine,” she said tightly, glancing towards Henry. “Why don’t you go get showered, kid? Maybe we can convince David and M’s to go get New Year’s ice cream later, ok?”  
  
Henry nodded, leaping off the couch and brushing past Killian with a quick smile.

“What’s the matter?” Killian asked as soon as he heard the bathroom door close.

“You didn’t say anything about prix fix.”  
  
Killian pursed his lips and shrugged and that only made her more frustrated. She wasn’t really sure _why_ she was frustrated. Or, more to the point, she didn’t appreciate why she was frustrated – thoughts of the entire day spent with him and her kid and peanut butter, chocolate chip pancakes bursting in front of her.

“I didn’t think it was a big deal.”  
  
And it wasn’t really.

It wasn’t

Everything was fine.   
  
It was still fine – even with a prix fix menu and early reservations and Ariel worried about her shoes. She was being irrational and she knew it, but for a few minutes that afternoon it had felt like everything she’d ever wanted and that scared her just a bit. And she needed something to blame for that.

Prix fix fit that bill perfectly.

“It’s not really,” Emma sighed and Killian narrowed his eyes at her in confusion. “It’s not. And it’s not about prix fix. I just...I don’t know. You made breakfast and you put hot chocolate in my coffee without asking and I figured you’d just be here all day. It’s stupid. I know it’s stupid. I’m sorry.”  
  
The couch creaked when he sank down next to her, smile on his face when his eyes flashed to her. “It’s not stupid,” he said softly, hand ghosting over her neck and across her shoulders.

“No?”  
  
“The opposite, in fact.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“For what it’s worth, I’d like to be here all day too.”  
  
“That’s worth a lot.”  
  
“Good,” he said and he sounded like he meant it. “You could come too, you know. Whenever you want. You don’t have to go uptown to get ice cream.”  
  
“I don’t want to throw off Ariel’s entire reservation schedule.”  
  
“Sit at the bar. Will misses Henry. Or we’ll kick somebody out of their table. Gina and Robin and Rol will be there later. You can even bring Mary Margaret and David with you if you want.”  
  
“You don’t have to kick anybody out of their table,” Emma said, leaning her head against his shoulder. “I _really_ don’t think Ariel would appreciate that.”  
  
“I’m willing to run that risk with you, love.”  
  
And everything was really as fine as she’d been telling herself it was all morning.

It was good – bordering on great.

“You also don’t have to offer let me bring M’s and David to everything you know,” Emma mumbled into the borrowed shirt he had on.

“It’s important to you.”  
  
She swallowed back the rush of emotion racing through her body and squeezed her eyes shut, thankful Henry was at the other end of the apartment for this conversation. “It is,” Emma said softly.

“Then tell them to come too. We’ll kick out half the restaurant if we have to.” Emma dragged in a deep breath and felt him tense up slightly underneath her. “Is that ok? I mean, if you’ve got other plans, it’s fine, honestly. I just thought you’d like…”  
  
She kissed him silent, surging up to catch his lips with hers and she swore she could feel his smile when her mouth met his. “I’m glad you stayed.”  
  
“Me too.” And the look on his face made it all but impossible to doubt him.

Emma nodded, only a few inches away from him, legs threatening to move back over his again – which was how he’d ended up staying overnight in the first place. “What time should we be there?”

His relieved exhale did something to her pulse and her own ability to exhale. “Whenever you want, love. We start serving the dinner menu at like six.”  
  
“We can be there a little after. So you’re already in service and, presumably, on schedule by that point.”

“That’s fine,” he said and there was that word again.

“You better go before Eric has some sort of prix fix meltdown in your kitchen.”  
  
“It’s ridiculous,” Killian sighed, rolling his eyes for added sentiment. “There’s three brunch options and one appetizer. He’ll survive.”  
  
“Go save The Jolly Roger.”

“I’m not saving anything.”  
  
“I expect an incredible dessert with my prix fix menu later.”   
  
“Naturally. Well you pay for what you get.”   
  
“Of course.”   
  
He waggled his eyebrows quickly at her, making Emma sigh dramatically – mostly to push away how much it all was _working_. “Go,” she said, pushing against his shoulder. “We’ll see you later, ok?”

“Ok,” Killian said, standing up and leaning over her still-sitting body in the corner of the couch. He bent down quickly, kissing her forehead lightly. “Happy New Year, Swan.”

And it felt like the start of something much more than just a new calendar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAVE SOME EMOTION. Like. A whole holiday's worth of emotion. As always, I can't thank you guys enough for every click, comment and kudos. It means the world to me. 
> 
> Come flail on Tumblr!  
> welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	26. Chapter 26

“You’re fidgeting.”  
  
“I don’t fidget.  
  
“You are. Currently. Stop moving your legs so much. It’s going to be fine.”  
  
There was that word again – or phrase. Whatever. Emma was nervous. And she was absolutely fidgeting. 

She just couldn’t bring herself to agree with Ruby. 

She should. She should probably agree with everything Ruby said since Ruby had only just started talking to her again a few hours before. 

It had taken several hours of coddling and explaining and something bordering dangerously close to groveling before Ruby had finally opened her mouth and muttered  _ it’s fine _ to Emma in the middle of her office. Emma thought she’d seen something that might have been pride pass over Ruby’s face before the muttered agreement, but she couldn’t be too sure. 

At least not until now. 

“And,” Ruby added, turning in her own chair to stare pointedly at Emma, eyes narrowed dangerously at her. “I think this is good.”  
  
“What? This meeting?”  
  
“Well, yes, but also the other stuff.”  
  
“The other stuff?”  
  
“You’re very dense when you’re fidgeting.”  
  
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”  
  
Ruby laughed softly, shaking her head and the light in Zelena’s office seemed to, somehow, reflect off her highlights. She crossed her legs slowly, hooking her heel behind her thigh and staring at Emma – one eyebrow perfectly raised and the spark that always seemed to exist in her eyes flashing across the few feet in between their chairs. 

“You tell him you love him yet?” Ruby asked, never one to mince words when she wanted something. 

“What?” Emma screeched, thankful Zelena was, apparently, running five minutes late for this very important meeting three days after New Year’s. 

“What do you mean  _ what? _  That’s a pretty straight-forward question. You’ve never bailed on me without calling and I was totally furious in the moment and even slightly after you’d explained it, because that’s kind of lame not to even call, but now that I’ve had some time to think about it, there’s only one explanation. You’re totally in love with him aren’t you?”

Emma’s mouth hung open and that was as much an answer as the words she couldn’t quite force out of her mouth. Ruby laughed again, louder this time, and pressed her lips together into a mix of a smile and a far-too-confident smirk. “I knew it,” she said. 

“I haven’t said anything.”

“Exactly.”  
  
“He and Henry made me pancakes.” Ruby rolled her eyes, but Emma could still see the remnants of a smile on her face. “He bought Henry a Christmas present.”  
  
“Those both seem like good things. You should probably tell him you want him to do that for the rest of your lives.”  
  
“Ruby,” Emma sighed, sinking a bit lower in her chair again. She was fidgeting again. Her producer held her hands up in silent question and Emma still didn’t have an answer to the unspoken words in the gesture. “You don’t think it’s too soon?” Emma asked, finally voicing the concern that had been sitting in the the corners of her mind since they’d walked out of The Jolly on New Year’s Day, Mary Margaret talking about the food and David explaining the extensive plans for the expansion he’d gotten out of Robin and Henry returning to his previous goal of figuring out a soccer team to root for. 

And it had all felt so right then that Emma hadn’t really considered it  _ could _ be wrong until she was by herself in her bed that night – almost certain she could still  _ feel _ the way he’d been next to her and she missed him. 

She’d seen Killian two hours before and she missed him. 

Because he wasn’t in the same bed as her. 

And she was, suddenly, drowning in emotions and want and walls that seemed incredibly high again. 

She was an emotional basket case. 

“Too soon for what?” Ruby asked, genuine confusion in her voice. 

“Too soon for everything,” Emma sighed and Ruby shook her head again. 

“That’s dumb.”  
  
“That’s an opinion.”  
  
“An accurate one. You know he’s crazy in love with you, right? Like it’s disgusting to watch.”  
  
Emma’s head snapped up and her eyes widened and Ruby looked far too pleased with herself. Zelena was very late. And Emma didn’t really want to have this conversation in an office she’d never actually be in before. 

Or at all. 

She didn’t say anything, just stared at her producer who answered the slightly-stunned look with a far too confident smile. “You know I’m right,” Ruby continued. “That’s why you’re not saying anything back. Because you’re crazy in love with him too.”

They must have been sitting under some sort of vent or something because Emma’s eyes were watering and just as wide as ever and she desperately needed to blink. She couldn’t really breathe though, so blinking seemed secondary on the list of bodily functions she needed to focus on. 

“It’s too soon,” she mumbled, tongue pressed on the inside of her cheek. 

“Also dumb.”  
  
“Can I just remind you for a second that you told me _not_ to do this. Several months ago. You said to be careful and to not throw myself into some emotional deep end. That’s something that really did happen.”  
  
“And you didn’t listen.”  
  
“What changed, Ruby?” Emma asked, not certain she really wanted the answer. 

“You did. And he did. And I might have done a little bit of research and questioning.”

“Questioning? What kind of questioning?”   
  
“I talked to Regina,” Ruby said, voice losing some of that _ knowing _ edge, like she understood she was treading on some dangerous friendship-producer ground. “And for what it’s worth, she’s almost as consistently worried about Killian as I am about you. We should have matching jackets or something. But, well, the short story is that conversation disabused me of the notion that he’s some sort of network playboy. The long story would involve a lot more swear words because, let me tell you, she’s got a mouth, seriously.”   
  
“I know that,” Emma said before she could stop herself and, now, Ruby’s eyes looked like they might fall out of their socket. “And also Robin’s former Navy, so maybe that  cliché is actually true.”

“What?”  
  
“What part are you questioning?”

“The part where you know things about his romantic history. Or lack thereof.”   
  
“He told me,” Emma said. “When he took me to Gowanus.”   
  
“Like the canal?”   
  
Emma nodded, enjoying the slight look of confusion on Ruby’s face. “And where he’s expanding The Jolly. We went out there a couple of weeks ago. It’s huge. Fifty tables.”   
  
“Fifty tables?” Ruby asked, confusion turning to _ impressed _ quickly and Emma was glad they’d successfully turned the conversation away from other vaguely overwhelming words. “Geez, he better hope he wins this thing, build up some publicity to get reservations for fifty tables, plus the old restaurant.”   
  
“Whose side are you on?” Emma laughed and Ruby answered with an impressively over-the-top eye roll, tapping the point of her heel on the carpet. “And, for what it’s worth, I don’t think he’s going to have a problem, honestly. I mean, fifty tables is a ton of tables, but he’s booked solid at The Jolly for months and people are showing up early for their reservations, so I think it’ll be fine. Better than fine actually.”  
  
Ruby gaped at her – mouth pulled up on the sides in some sort of surprised smile – and her eyes flashed across Emma’s face, almost searching for the point when she’d transitioned into  _ gushing about her boyfriend  _ in the middle of Zelena’s office. She seemed to find her answer after a few moments, reaching out to grab Emma’s wrist tightly and beam at her. 

“You should tell him you love him with the actual words,” Ruby said softly, but with the kind of intensity that had gotten Emma on TV in the first place. “Don’t just go on about the restaurant when you do it.”  
  
Emma opened her mouth to respond – some rehash of  _ too soon _ and how she wasn’t entirely certain how to tell him about Neal or just  _ why _ David was so overprotective, the fear of rejection almost paralyzing her in that slightly uncomfortable office chair. 

A tiny, little voice in the back of her mind mumbled something against her brain though – flashes of encouraging smiles and a murmured  _ Swan _ in her ear and the way his eyes narrowed a bit when he was trying to be serious. 

And she was absolutely fucked. 

She was crazy in love with him. 

Zelena’s heels clacked on the hallway just outside the door and Ruby shot Emma a look that promised this conversation wasn’t over yet and both of them sat up a bit straighter in their respective chairs when the network boss walked into her office. 

“I’m sorry I’m late,” she said, sinking into the chair behind the very large desk on the far end of the room and eyeing Emma across the space. “I was actually telling my assistant how to answer some questions with a reporter about you.”  
  
“Me?” Emma repeated, more surprised by _that_ than anything Ruby had tried to throw her direction. “About what?”  
  
“Your relationship with Killian Jones.”

Emma felt Ruby’s eyes dart to her and she knew her mouth was hanging open, could hear her own staggered breathing ringing in her ears. Zelena crossed her arms lightly, looking like she was only passably entertained by what she was seeing. 

“There’s no relationship,” Emma lied and Ruby shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Zelena actually laughed. 

“Of course there is,” she said. “I watched your holiday episode, Emma. And you’re a horrible liar. You both are.”  
  
“Both of us?”

Zelena nodded slowly, eyebrows pulled up and that same entertained look flashing across her face. “I saw him in the hallway on my way in here. He said the same thing, some nonsense about no relationship and how  _ strictly professional _ the two of you are. If that’s how you’re going to play it, then you should probably work on not making out during network-sponsored holiday events.”  
  
“I told you it was making out,” Ruby hissed and Emma glared at her. She wished the floor would open up and swallow her into it – that would be more comfortable than this conversation. 

“I’m, uh..” Emma stuttered, but Zelena waved her silent and she bit her lip tightly to stop herself from floundering for some sort of excuse. 

“I honestly don’t care,” Zelena said. Emma hadn’t been expecting that. “Regina and Robin have probably made out at every network-sponsored event I’ve held over the last five years and they’re not even on-air talent. We can play this.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“We can play it. I mean, I’m not saying make out on camera, but people _wanted_ you to get together. Do you even go on the internet?”  
  
“Not enough, apparently.”

“The internet really likes the two of you,” Ruby said and that smug look was back. Emma rolled her eyes. 

“Anyway,” Zelena continued, “we can use this to our advantage. Put the two of you together in some more promos, make sure your stations are next to each other in the final three shows. Keep up the banter and the ratings will come pouring in.”

Emma’s head spun back and forth quickly – eyes trying to land on Zelena and Ruby at the same time – and she could  _ feel _ her stomach shifting slightly inside her own body. She wasn’t positive stomachs were supposed to do that. 

Ruby seemed to sense the anxiety practically rolling off her, squeezing her wrist tightly again and tossing a supportive smile her way. It didn’t work. A reporter had never been interested in Emma – not once in the last two years she’d spent cooking on TV. 

And, now, not even two months after deciding to call Killian Jones her boyfriend, there were questions and requests for comment.  

“You know I didn’t say anything,” Zelena said, snapping Emma out of her near-breakdown in the middle of the office. “And neither did my assistant. Who was the one on the phone. He didn’t say anything. And he won’t. Or I’ll fire him.”

Emma opened her mouth again – to thank her boss, maybe, she wasn’t entirely sure – but Zelena shook her head quickly. “I don’t care what you two are doing when you’re not cooking or, at least not cooking in front of my cameras. I care about ratings and you two bring in ratings. Which, after all, is the real reason I wanted to talk to you and Ruby this afternoon.”

Emma’s neck hurt from twisting back and forth so quickly, but she finally settled on Zelena and the small stack of papers she hadn’t noticed sitting on her desk while she was busy worried about reporters and questions and relationship statuses in print. 

“My ratings?” Emma prompted and Zelena nodded, tapping the papers with the back of her pen. “Are they good?”  
  
“Better.”  
  
“They’re really good, Em,” Ruby mumbled next to her. Her hand hadn’t left Emma’s wrist this entire time. 

“How good?”  
  
“Good enough to get your timeslot back,” Zelena said. Emma could have used a bit of preamble. Jumping from freakout to freakout like that was exhausting. 

Maybe she should just get better at dealing with news. 

She’d never been all that good at it. 

“When?” Emma asked. If Zelena didn’t need a preamble neither did she. 

“Next week if you want.”  
  
“If I want?” Emma repeated skeptically and Zelena grinned at her, the threat of a laugh on the corners of her lips. “Of course. That was kind of the point of doing this whole, stupid all-star thing?”  
  
“Emma,” Ruby snapped. 

Zelena laughed, the sound filling the room as she pulled the stack of papers off her desk and held them in front of her, waiting Emma to take them. “Those are the numbers in the summer, before the stupid all-star thing happened,” she said, nodding at the top paper Emma had clutched in her hand. “And the ones down at the bottom there are since the stupid all-star thing happened. And then, for good measure, the one at the very end are the numbers from the Sunday special with Killian and they’re the best numbers you’ve ever pulled.”  
  
“Ever?” Emma repeated, stunned as she all but yanked the bottom sheet out from underneath the pile, staring at graphs and pie charts she didn’t entirely understand. “Like ever, ever?”

“Like ever, ever,” Zelena confirmed, still laughing at her just a bit. “And we think it’s only going to get better once you get back to a normal Sunday slot. Your slot. You know you should go on the internet some more, Emma, honestly. If you had you’d have known that the legion of fans you’ve drummed up weren’t very happy with us at the switch.”  
  
“The higher-ups failed to take into account the power of Emma Swan,” Ruby said, eyes jumping towards Zelena like this was a conversation they’d had several times before. Zelena sighed loudly and tilted her head dramatically and Emma wasn’t entirely sure what kind of weird, parallel universe she’d stumbled into that afternoon. 

“So you’ve pointed out, Ruby,” Zelena said sharply and the producer’s smile dropped her face instantly. “Anyway, Emma, if we do move you back, I need you to understand something.”   
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“There’s no guarantee things won’t change again in the future. If your ratings drop again, we’ll drop you back, got it?” Emma nodded. “And if we want to do more themed episodes and have more guests on the show, you’ll, at least, consider it.” Emma paused at that, but she felt Ruby’s wide eyes burrowing into the side of her head and nodded slowly. “And, lastly, you’ll stop calling my all-star competition stupid. Got it?”   
  
Zelena grinned at her – quite possibly the first time  _ that _ had ever happened – and Emma met her smile with one of her own, nerves, finally, falling away, and replaced with some hot, determined flash of excitement. 

She’d won. 

And she hadn’t even  _ really _ won yet. 

She’d gotten her timeslot back. 

She was going to win this stupid, all-star thing and she was going to keep her timeslot and she’d argue out the details later. They weren’t going to do theme episodes. She’d consider guest appearances – because she had more fun cooking on TV with Killian than she’d let on. 

“I got it,” Emma said and Zelena nodded with enough authority that she probably should have been in charge of several networks. 

“Good, you’ll be back on schedule this weekend. I expect plenty of banter and no on-camera making out when you fill Cupcake Wars next week.”  
  
“I think we can handle that.”  
  
“You better.”  
  
Zelena nodded again and the conversation was very clearly over, Ruby was dragging Emma out of the office as soon as she’d managed to get her feet underneath her. And it all hit her at once – in the elevator back down to Ruby’s floor – leaning against the back wall of the machine and trying to catch her breath, while Ruby’s heel tapped impatiently on the floor. 

The elevator bell dinged once and the doors were barely open before Ruby was, once again, dragging Emma behind her, fingers wrapped tightly around her wrist with a concerned look etched on her face. 

“This is a good thing,” she said seriously, falling into _producer_ mode with an ease that both impressed and astounded Emma. “The best thing. This is exactly what you’ve been working for.”  
  
“I know,” Emma sighed, lungs stinging slightly with the lack of air. “You’re right. You’re totally right.”  
  
“I’m always right.” Emma let out a shaky laugh. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. And then remember that this is the best thing. Because no one deserves to be a TV star more than you. And now, with your slot back, you can go back to being super mom too. You can cook Henry dinner or bring him to The Jolly and you can help Regina adopt her fianc é’s kid. You can do all of it now, because you don’t have to worry about this. You did it, Emma.”  
  
She took a deep breath and pressed her lips together tightly, teeth pressing into the side of her tongue as she nodded slowly. “You’re very good at these pep talks, you know. And how did you know about Roland?”

Ruby laughed loudly, shaking her hair off her shoulder and letting go of Emma’s hand to take a step back and grin at her. “Regina told me,” she said, grinning. “And just think, I pulled that pep talk out while still being slightly mad about New Year’s, so just think what I’m capable of when I’m one hundred percent in your corner?”  
  
“Are you not currently one hundred percent in my corner?”

The laughter died immediately, smile turning serious and Ruby’s eyes narrowed so quickly it was difficult to actually see the irises of her eyes through her mascara. “Always,” Ruby said without a shadow of a doubt or a joke or any uncertainty. “No matter what, you know that.”

She did know that. 

In the weird and winding road of TV celebrity chef existence Emma had come to figure out in the last two years, Ruby had always been in her corner – without question and even when she blew her off for New Year’s Eve on the couch with Killian Jones. 

And bed, but that was beside the point. 

“Right back at you,” Emma said, meaning every syllable. 

Ruby wasn’t a hugger per se – far too  _ cool _ for that kind of sentimental nonsense – but it had been a weird and unexpected day and Emma really shouldn’t have been surprised when her producer wrapped her hands around her shoulders and yanked her across the space in between them and hugged her with everything she, apparently, had. 

And Emma hugged right back. 

They’d won. 

“Am I interrupting a moment?” 

Ruby dropped her arms quickly and Emma couldn’t stop herself from rolling her eyes – or smiling as soon as her mind processed the voice coming down the hallway behind her. “Are you stalking me?” she asked, spinning around with her arms crossed over her chest. 

Killian smirked at her – and it all felt a bit like d éjà vu or some flashing, neon sign about  _ how far they’d come _ – and waggled his eyebrows quickly, thumb wrapping around the top of his belt in a way that made Emma lose her breath all over again. 

“You’ve figured me out, Swan,” Killian laughed. “That’s exactly what I’ve been doing the whole time.”  
  
“What are you doing here?” 

“Straight to the point, huh?” Emma shrugged and he laughed again, hand tugging on the hair behind his ear. “Henry texted me.”  
  
“And told you what? He didn’t know why I was here.”  
  
“Emma got her show back!” Killian and Emma both moved quickly at the sound of Ruby’s near-screech, wide-eyed and a bit surprised. 

Ruby’s own mouth dropped open when she realized what she’d done. “Sorry,” she muttered, the toe of her heel pressed into the carpet and her teeth tugging on her lip. “And, uh, I told Henry. This morning. There may be some sort of something planned at Granny’s later. Maybe. I don’t know.”  
  
“Maybe?” Emma repeated and Ruby shrugged. 

“Swan, is that true?” Killian asked softly, fingers ghosting over the small of her back and making her shiver a bit in that otherwise empty elevator lobby. 

“You didn’t know? Henry didn’t tell you?”  
  
Killian shook his head slowly, grin threatening to crack his entire face in half. “No,” he said, voice still soft and full of _something_ that sounded a bit like pride. “You’ve apparently got a kid who’s very good at keeping secrets on your hands, love. Although he did suggest I consider coming to Granny’s later on tonight as well, so I probably should have figured something was going on.”  
  
“And you just showed up at the network offices? You hate being here.”  
  
“Hate’s a very strong word.”  
  
“And totally true.”  
  
“Maybe,” he shrugged. “But the point I’m trying to make here, Swan, is that Henry told me that you were going to be here for some sort of _big_ meeting and that I should probably consider coming up town. He’s a very persuasive twelve year old.”  
  
“Almost thirteen,” Emma mumbled. “He turns thirteen in less than a month.”  
  
“I believe that was mentioned as well.”  
  
“Efficient text message conversation.”  
  
“He’s quite a talent.”  
  
Ruby groaned loudly a few feet away – and Emma almost felt bad that she’d nearly forgotten she was still in the hallway, let alone still part of this conversation. She glanced over her shoulder at her producer, hands on hips and toe tapping a threatening beat and tried to smile. 

“You guys ever going to talk about the show?” she asked. “Or the reporter calling to ask about your relationship?”

And Emma groaned then, Killian’s hand tightening on the bottom of her shirt so that she was nervous he was going to actually tear the fabric. “A reporter?” he asked, the edge in his voice practically cutting Emma. “From where?”  
  
“Zelena didn’t say,” Emma answered. “Just said her assistant told him no comment and that was that. There can’t be a story if there’s no comment right?”  
  
He didn’t answer – which didn’t do much to quell her nerves on the subject – just nodded slowly, eyes closed lightly and she could have sworn his entire body sagged a bit. “You alright?” Emma asked, hand falling flat on the front of his shirt. 

“Of course, love,” he said quickly. Far too quickly to be the truth. 

“Ok,” Emma mumbled, dragging out the two letters into half a dozen syllables and Killian grinned at her. She almost believed everything was fine and there couldn’t be a story without a comment. Almost. 

It helped when he kissed her, earning another groan from Ruby. “Talk about the show,” she cried, leaning against the hallway wall with her phone out now. “And how I’ll need to know what your IC schedule looks like, Killian, because we’ve got to do another guest appearance while the all-star iron is still hot. People are going nuts over both of you.”   
  
“You hear that, Swan?” he asked, barely pulling away from her lips to talk. “People are going nuts for us.”   
  
“Seems a bit extreme.”   
  
“Ah, well, I seem to remember something about chemistry being discussed before,” Killian said softly – and this was different than the  _ softly _ of before. That one sunk into Emma’s pulse and her veins and those same lungs that had struggled to pull in oxygen before. And it made her  _ believe _ in a way that she hadn’t allowed herself to ever even consider before. 

She was  _ absolutely _ crazy in love with him. 

She should tell him. 

She couldn’t tell him in the hallway. 

Not when Ruby was sighing dramatically a few feet away, fingers tapping on her phone screen in rhythm with the sounds of her half a dozen different alerts and he had asked about reporters like he knew people would be asking and she still had to tell the rest of her family about getting her show back. 

She had to focus on her show. 

Food first. 

Ruby walked towards them, that determined look on her face that got Emma to agree to film a Halloween-themed episode earlier this year, and stared expectantly at Killian. “If you don’t give me your IC schedule, I’ll get it from Regina and she’ll just decide when you film again. Choice is up to you.”  
  
And then she was gone, down the hallway towards her office, heels echoing behind her as she shouted to be at Granny’s by six o’clock. “She’s very insistent,” Killian grumbled, hands falling to Emma’s hips. 

“Since the day I met her. She’s, at least, three quarters of the reason I got my timeslot back. She probably threatened to annoy Zelena every day for the rest of her life if I didn’t get back to ten o’clock.”  
  
“Well, I’m glad she did, saved me the trouble of having to do it myself. And _you_ got your show back, Swan. No one else.”  
  
Emma blinked quickly – like she was waiting for him to disappear into thin air or something. He didn’t. He was still there. All dark hair and blue eyes and a button-up shirt that she was certain not only matched his eyes, but probably would have looked better on the floor than on his actual body. And it looked pretty good on his body. 

He was still there, smiling at her and keeping his hands locked on her hips and just as supportive and encouraging as ever. Maybe it wasn’t too soon. Maybe these things – when they happened – just happened. And you weren’t supposed to be worried about timing or journalists or, even, timeslots. 

He seemed to pick up on her internal monologue, tilting his head in question and pulling one eyebrow down low and Emma appreciated the quick intake of breath when she caught his lips with hers and kissed him with all the support and encouragement and  _ love _ she could muster. 

“You know,” Killian said a few moments later, voice sending a chill down her spine. And up her spine. “The last time we were in this hallway, I distinctly remember things going much differently.”  
  
“Yeah, well, you were an ass then. Far too confident for your own good. But you were growing on me at that point, plus you’d caught me breaking and entering, so you absolutely had the upper hand there.”  
  
“And now?” 

“You’re still confident, but now I might be just as confident in you as you are.” His lips ticked up slightly at that, pulling away from her to widen his eyes. “Did that make sense?”  
  
“I’m not entirely sure, but it sounded like a compliment. I’ll take it.”  
  
“Good. And thank you.”  
  
“For?”  
  
“Coming on my show. And thinking about threatening Zelena. Even if Ruby probably did all your dirty work for you.”

“You do know that neither of those things had anything to do with you actually getting your show back, right? Because neither of those things had anything to do with you actually getting your show back. You did that.”  
  
Emma opened her mouth to argue, but snapped her jaw shut at the look on his face – serious and intense and chock-full of something that, in some sort of normal situation, might actual be construed as love. 

But this wasn’t a normal situation and Emma couldn’t give herself the benefit of a doubt. 

“You did that,” Killian repeated, words leaving no room for debate. “Ask Ruby if you don’t believe me. Or David or Mary Margaret or Henry. You could even ask Gina, but that may take a bit more convincing because she likes to maintain some sort of tough façade.”  
  
“That’s a long list.”  
  
“And they’d all say the exact same thing. You did that, Emma. On your own. Because people want to watch you and want you at 10 o’clock every Sunday morning.”  
  
Her whole body surged forward with the sound of her laughter, head falling on the front of his shirt as Killian’s hand pushed into the back of her hair, left arm still holding tightly around her waist. “You really just showed up here because my kid told you to?” Emma asked, voice muffled by the fabric in front of her mouth. 

Killian kissed the top of her head, nodding against her hairline. “I did. He was very adamant that I be here when you were here.”   
  
“He’s the best.”   
  
“A fact I don’t think I’ll ever argue.”   
  
Emma smiled against his shirt, squeezing her eyes shut tightly and breathing  _ him _ in and it was all kind of weird and overwhelming, but it had been a kind of weird and overwhelming last few months. And she really liked the way his arm felt around her waist. 

“Were you going to come to Granny’s later? Or do you have to cook?”

“I can get out for a couple of hours,” Killian promised. “And I seem to have been designated as the official baker for this impromptu celebration.”  
  
“What?” she asked, pulling back and the smile on his face wasn’t even fair. 

“Henry asked.”  
  
“Asked?”  
  
“Suggested.”  
  
“Did he also suggest what to make?”

“There were a few suggestions, but I had an idea.”

Emma’s eyes widened and she pursed her lips. “That so? Deviating from the plan?”  
  
“I told you, love, there was no plan, just suggestions. But I’m thinking, if you're here and I’m here and neither one of us is otherwise presently occupied, then it seems to only make sense that you come home with me and tell me what kind of dessert you want and then I make it. And we avoid the potential of disliked desserts and missed opportunities.”  
  
”Missed opportunities?” He nodded quickly. “What opportunity is that, exactly?”  
  
“The one to get you back to my apartment, obviously.”  
  
“Scandalous,” Emma laughed. 

“Just simple chemistry, Swan. Double check the Nielsen ratings. They’ll back me up on this one.”

“I’m not entirely sure that’s what Nielsen does.”  
  
“You can even help bake if you want.”  
  
“Well, when you put it like that,” Emma teased, not able to keep the smile off her face as she tugged on the belt loops on the front of his pants. “Cooking on my day off? How’s a girl to say no to a plan like that?”

“I’ll point out that, technically, you’re not cooking. You’re baking. And you’re not even really baking. You’re telling me what to bake.”  
  
“You don’t want my help?”  
  
“I’d love your help, but it’s your party, Swan. No one is forcing you to make the dessert.”  
  
“I’d like that,” she said softly, ducking her eyes as she tugged him closer to her and kissed him before he could actually answer her. 

He didn’t argue once she stopped kissing him either. 

Instead, he wrapped his hand in hers and hailed a cab and pulled her through the kitchen of The Jolly Roger back up to his apartment. And they spent the afternoon baking and it was so goddamn perfect Emma could hardly see straight. 

She flicked flour at him while he tried to whisk and Killian swiped whipped cream across her nose and, at one point, they got so distracted pressed up against the wall in between his kitchen and living room that they nearly burnt the cupcakes they were baking. 

That was his fault entirely – she couldn’t be held accountable for her actions when he pushed his hand underneath her shirt without a word and, somehow, managed to flick her bra open without actually taking her shirt off. 

That was just talent. 

It deserved her full and prompt attention. 

They split a cupcake before they were entirely cooled off – nearly burning their fingers on the not-quite-settled dough, just seconds out of the oven – and Emma mumbled something about how he was good at everything and she’d absolutely deserved the quick eyebrow movement and smirk he answered with. 

Killian’s phone buzzed at quarter to six and Emma didn’t even have to ask if it was Henry to know that it was. She finished putting whipped cream on cupcakes and stepped back to admire her work when she felt him come up behind her, arms wrapping around her waist and lips brushing against the side of her neck. 

“Looks good,” he muttered, breath catching slightly when she leaned back. 

“Just good?”  
  
“Fantastic? Incredible? Best decorated cupcakes I’ve ever seen?”  
  
“Sounds about right,” Emma laughed. “This is dangerous territory though, you’re giving away insider info on how you bake cupcakes ahead of next week. I feel like I’m cheating somehow.”  
  
“I don’t think that’s true.”

“No?”

“Nah, you’re not showing your metaphorical cards and there’s got to be some sort of give and take to make it insider trading.”   
  
“You’re an expert in that now too, huh?”   
  
“Not at all.” Emma laughed, turning slightly and his arms didn’t move an inch. “Plus,” Killian added, bending his head again to trail his mouth along the line of her collarbone and, _ fuck _ , they had to go to a  _ party. _  “Who says I’ve given away all my tricks yet?”  
  
She tried to keep her breathing even and her body upright, but that required her to grip his hips tightly and that seemed kind of counterintuitive at this point. Killian’s phone buzzed again and Emma bit back a groan, dropping her hands and taking a much-needed step back. 

“Come on, Swan,” he said, pushing the phone his back pocket after typing out what might have been the fastest reply in the entire world. “We’re being summoned to your celebration.”  
  
They walked into Granny’s hand in hand – perfectly decorated cupcakes balanced on a tray resting on her hip and smiles on their faces and, eventually, Emma decided she’d tell him she loved him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey. Hi. Hello there. You guys are the best. And the reaction to this story constantly astounds me and it's the nicest. Also the nicest? @laurnorder who fixes all my words and makes sure this makes sense. There are a lot of words to read. 
> 
> Come flail on Tumblr if you're down: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	27. Chapter 27

She was still asleep. 

He could tell. 

And that seemed like a fairly big deal. One he didn’t need to try and tackle at 7:30 in the morning. He should go back to sleep. His alarm wasn’t set to go off for another half an hour, but there was something about REM sleep and waking up in the middle of it and how that would make him more tired and Emma was still asleep in his arms and he couldn’t quite bring himself to close his eyes when she was just half an inch away from him. REM sleep be damned. He tugged her closer, trying to make sure he didn’t actually wake her up in the process and  _ fuck _ if that didn’t wake him up – the evidence of that pressed up against her thigh and maybe this hadn’t been the best idea. 

It had been his idea. 

And it had seemed like the greatest idea in the history of mankind the night before – Henry more than willing to spend the night with David and Mary Margaret, cries of video games and popcorn with caramel sauce dumped on it and not even a second thought as to why Killian wanted him otherwise occupied. 

And it was absolutely selfish – because he wanted Emma back in his bed more than he cared to admit, bordering on childish frustration when she wasn’t there, finding it more and more difficult to actually fall asleep when he couldn’t hear the sounds of her even breathing next to him or the smell of that vanilla body wash she seemed to be obsessed with lingering on his sheets. 

He wanted her there. 

He wanted  _ her. _

He loved her. 

That was probably closer to the point. 

Fuck. 

He loved her. 

She breathed deeper, head pushed into the pillow and hair threatening to brush across his entire face and Killian’s hand tightened around her waist instinctively, fingers brushing over her stomach. She was awake. 

And he felt like an ass. 

Emma groaned softly and he should have moved away, should have put, at least a mile of space in between them because he couldn’t  _ think _ when she did that, let alone control the way his body seemed to naturally react to the sound, but he was a selfish asshole and he didn’t move an inch, just let her burrow closer against him. 

“What time is it?” she asked softly, voice still a bit gravely with the sleep that clung to it and if it wasn’t the most attractive thing he’d ever heard, he wasn’t sure what was. 

“Still early,” he answered, fingers dancing across her skin now and she made that noise again and Killian swore he could  _ hear  _ her smile. 

She twisted slightly, hair tangling underneath her as she moved to face him and Killian had to bite his lip tightly as her leg draped across his. Emma grinned at him, eyes bright despite announcements of how early it still was and maybe this  _ was _ a good idea. 

“Why didn’t you go back to sleep?” she asked and he wondered when she’d developed the ability to read his mind. 

Or maybe she just knew him and that seemed to light a tiny fire in the core of his being, adding to the inferno that was how much he absolutely wanted her. 

“Old habits,” he said, trying to brush by the vaguely depressing potential of this conversation. “And something about REM sleep and how it’s worse to fall back asleep and hit REM and then wake up and…”  
  
And he didn’t finish. 

She pulled him closer to him, one hand in his hair and the other wrapped around the top of his thigh and he couldn’t come up with a single coherent thought, let alone any kind of excuse about REM sleep. 

He pulled her around, yanking her up over his body and that might have been a mistake, because there was absolutely no way to hide  _ anything _ like that – neither one of them wearing many clothes – but Emma didn’t seem to care, which might have made him fall in love with her even more. 

And when she reached her hand down, pushing fabric out of her way with a determination that shocked him just a bit at 7:30 in the morning, he might have actually burst into flames. 

She laughed softly, rolling her hips against his when she sat up, practically tearing the t-shirt she was wearing off, tossing the thing over her shoulder before ducking her head back down and kissing him. And he might have actually growled when she moved. 

Fuck. 

It was a bit of a balancing act, trying to get the rest of their clothes off – made all the more difficult by the rather useless left side of his body, his prosthetic sitting next the ancient alarm clock on his nightstand. She tugged on the waistband of his boxers, making her intent clear without actually saying words – a fact Killian was thankful for since he was enjoying the way her tongue felt along his bottom lip quite a bit – and he canted his hips up slightly, making her gasp when he brushed against her, letting her yank the fabric off his hips, pushing it as far down his thighs as she could reach. 

He kicked the rest of it off, trying to shake it off his ankle when it caught there.

Emma laughed softly, pulling her lips away from his and the sound shot through him like nothing he’d ever heard before and  _ fuck _ he should tell her – how she’d landed in the middle of his life and changed everything and how he’d found himself  _ believing _ in things again. He believed in her. And he’d do anything to make sure she knew it. 

It was melodramatic and sentimental and it seemed a bit overwhelming for some kind of real-world relationship that still wasn’t  _ entirely _ honest, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He loved her and he wanted her and he’d fight for this until he couldn’t see straight. 

She’d become the most important thing in his entire life in the span of four and a half months. 

Emma groaned again – the sound snapping him back to the present and the feel of her on top of him, thighs gripping either side of his hips like she was trying to keep herself upright – and she was wearing far too many clothes. 

He moved his hand away from her hip, pulling her head back down to him with his hand stuffed in her hair and the smell of vanilla around him. And as soon as her lips met his, he flipped them, enjoying the soft gasp when she found herself on her back and his hand in between her legs, tugging on fabric he appreciated the night before, but, suddenly, found incredibly inconvenient. 

“Fuck,” Killian groaned, head falling forward to rest against her forehead when he found that she wanted him just as much he wanted her, the realization making his heart thud against his ribcage painfully. 

Emma’s laugh was shaky, almost nervous and that wasn’t right – this was  _ good. _  This was a good thing. The best thing. He lifted his head, eyes meeting hers and he was almost taken aback by how open they were – bright green and full of the kind of raw emotion he seemed to feel in every single corner of his body. 

He should tell her. 

And then never say anything else. 

He should tell her he loved her, whisper it in her ear or shout it or chant it like some sort of mantra that might erase the worry in her gaze and the questions in the way her body tensed underneath him. 

He didn’t. 

Because that seemed like  _ pushing _ and it was only four and a half months and he shouldn’t be feeling like he did – like he found  _ it. _  some sort of happy ending that he hadn’t actually realized he’d been waiting for. And he wasn’t going to scare her away. 

So he didn’t tell her – because he was a selfish asshole who couldn’t bear the thought of her leaving again. 

So he kissed her instead, trying to pour every thought and promise and unspoken  _ I love you _ into the movement and Emma relaxed, hand cupping the side of his jaw as her hips pushed up into his, making both of them groan. 

He tried to move, reach for the nightstand and the drawer and the  _ responsibility _ there, but Emma’s hand dropped back down, fingers brushing across his hip bone and further down, wrapping around him and he couldn’t think about anything except the way she felt. Killian mumbled something that might have been another  _ fuck, _  hissed out between his teeth and eyes squeezed shut as Emma’s lips brushed against the side of his jaw, taking over where her hand had been. 

“It’s ok,” she said softly and the room must have been on fire. The stupid oven in his kitchen must have, finally, caught on fire and now the flames had made their way to his bedroom and everything was in flames. 

Or maybe that was just him. And her hand hadn’t moved an inch, thumb rubbing small, maddening circles against him 

“What?” Killian asked, managing to choke out the word. 

“It’s ok,” Emma repeated. “I mean, if you want…”  
  
“Emma,” he said seriously, trying to keep his mind focused on anything but her lips or her hand or how warm her entire body was. Her eyes darkened for a moment and the nerves were back and he realized what she was doing – should have realized as soon as the words left her mouth – trying to pull down some of those walls, to  _ give _ something and, God, if he didn’t love her more than anything in the entire world. 

He nodded slowly. “Of course I do.”  
  
Her shoulders heaved slightly with the sound of her quiet sigh and he pressed his lips against hers, moving across her cheeks and forehead and eyelids as he tried to burn the soft sounds she made into the back of his mind for the rest of time. “I just want…” she said, cutting herself off before she could finish. 

“What, love? What do you want?”

“You. I want you.”  
  
And that was enough – the fire that had been burning his apartment to the ground just a few moments before, surging through his entire body as he moved up and both of them groaned again when their bodies met. 

He couldn’t move. 

He couldn’t breathe. 

The only thing he could do was  _ feel _ and  _ want _ and try to make sure this didn’t end before it ever really began. 

“Killian,” Emma said, the crack in her voice adding fuel to the metaphorical fire. “You’ve got to move.”

He laughed softly, pressing his head into the crook of her neck and biting softly and  _ that _ sound was going to be the death of him. But he did what she said, moving as slowly as he could, trying to maintain the last vestiges of his control and it was a fine line to walk because there wasn’t really that much control to begin with. 

She was mumbling something in his ear and he should pay more attention, should have focused on the sound of her voice or what she was saying, but he was too wrapped up in the way she felt and how absolutely consumed he was by her. 

He should have put the prosthetic back on he thought suddenly, should have done everything he could have to be  _ whole _ and good enough that he would have almost been able to use two hands to touch her. Killian felt his breath catch in his lungs slightly, the frustration weighing down on him like an anvil and Emma’s head moved, meeting his gaze with questions written across her face. 

He tried to move, to keep his left arm away from her body and out of her sight, the scars that ran the length of his wrist brighter than normal against the rest of his skin, like they were taunting him and everything he wasn’t. 

And he knew the moment she realized, green flashing across his body to the place where his hand should have been and a small smile on her face when she moved her hand, fingers trailing across a scar. 

“Don’t do that,” she whispered, not letting go of his arm as she tugged it closer to her. 

“Don’t do what?”  
  
“Don’t try and hide. You don’t have to.”

“Swan,” Killian sighed, but she just shook her head, hips arching up again and he couldn’t come up with another word to argue. 

“I said I wanted you. That was all of you, no matter what.”

Her voice echoed in his head when he moved, surging back up to catch her lips with his and she laughed against his mouth – a giddy, emotional sound that seemed to shoot straight to his core. 

Killian wasn’t a saint – the rumors about him at the network were far from true, but he hadn’t been completely alone since Milah. But this was different. This was everything and then some. Because she wanted  _ him _ and he wanted her more than anything, willing to show her everything and give her everything and  _ be _ everything. 

Fuck. 

He loved her an absolutely obscene amount. 

She hummed against him and if there wasn’t a fire before, there was certainly some form of electricity because it felt like his entire body was buzzing, trying to work his fingers in between them. “Killian,” Emma sighed and he squeezed his eyes shut at the sound, nodding against her as he pressed his thumb down. 

She gasped and her whole body tightened around his and he was gone moments later, hips moving of their own accord until he felt like every muscle in his body had given up, not quite able to hold up his weight. 

Killian tried not to collapse on top of her, but that was harder to do when Emma was kissing the side of his neck, hand in his hair and he could feel her smile on his skin. “Is that how you normally woke up?” she asked softly, a laugh on the edge of her voice. 

He rolled to the side, propping his head up on his right hand and raising one eyebrow at her. She met his gaze with an easy confidence and comfort that made him certain this  _ had _ been the best idea in the history of mankind. “What?” he asked, the word as breathless as he still felt. 

“You said it was an old habit, waking up early. I just figured it was a Navy thing. Get out and swab the decks or whatever you do on a boat in the morning.”  
  
“I have never swabbed a deck in my entire life. And it’s a ship, Swan. We’ve been over this.”

“Really? That’s disappointing. I had this whole picture in my head. You with a mop and a bucket and a uniform.”  
  
He laughed, smile threatening to permanently stretch the muscles in his face and shook his head. “Officers don’t swab.”  
  
“Ah, of course.”  
  
And it shouldn’t be this simple – shouldn’t be this easy to talk to her about everything, the Navy and ships and swabbing decks. But it was. It was normal and comfortable and that inferno now felt like a tiny little flame in the pit of his stomach that seemed to come to life every time she smiled at him. 

“Was there a uniform though?” Emma asked, sliding closer to him and resting her hand on his hip. 

“There was,” he said, eyes narrowing at the thought of where this was going. “Several, depending on what you were doing.”  
  
“I bet you looked good in dress whites,” she mumbled, like she was thinking it and her eyes went wide when she realized what she had said. His stomach flipped at that, eyebrows shooting up his forehead. 

“Of course I did,” Killian said, trying to keep his voice confident. 

Emma breathed easier for a moment, teeth tugging on her lower lip in a way that shouldn’t be nearly as arousing as it was, particularly considering the topic of their conversation. “I’m sorry for bringing it up,” she said softly, hand tightening a fraction of an inch. 

“Don’t be, Swan.” And it surprised him how much he meant it. He almost didn’t mind. It was – still – as much a part of him as the lack of his hand and the distinct lack of confidence he regularly tried to mask with over-the-top bravado and she’d seen through all of that. There was no point in not letting her see this too. “Unfortunately,” he continued, bending his head so he was hovering on top of her again, lips moving across her collarbone and down her chest. “They tend to make you turn those kinds of things in when they kick you out. Seems a shame now, though.”

“Why?” she asked and Killian appreciated the way she sighed out the question. 

“Because,” he said, peppering kisses on her skin in between every word. “If I’d known you were so attracted to the uniform, I would have prepared better for this moment.”  
  
Her body shook with laughter underneath him and she smacked at his shoulder slightly before sighing again when his teeth nipped along her collarbone and that was absolutely going to leave a mark. And he absolutely didn’t care. He hoped it did. 

They were treading on dangerous territory – knocking on the door of repeating earlier actions and he could feel his body start to react to the feel of her fingers across his spine, fingertips brushing down his back. 

His alarm clock went off. 

Loudly. 

And Emma yelped, jumping a bit out the sound and pushing her body into his and making him groan. “Sorry, sorry,” she muttered as he leaned to the side, smashing his hand on top of the machine. 

“It’s probably for the best,” Killian admitted, rolling back over and pulling himself to the side of the bed. “They’ll kill us if we’re late.”

“Zelena did say we could  _ play _ this,” Emma argued, swinging her legs onto the floor. 

“Somehow I don’t think this is what she meant.”

“Probably not,” she laughed, standing up and it took every ounce of his will power not to pull her back down to him, the sight of her in front of him enough to make the blood rush from his head. “I’m going to go take a shower.”  
  
Killian nodded slowly, eyes a bit out of focus as she walked towards the door. “That was also an invitation,” she said, glancing back at him over her shoulder with a smile on her face. 

He didn’t need to be told twice, all but sprinting towards her and tugging her down the hallway towards the bathroom. 

They were ten minutes late. 

Ruby laughed when they walked onto set together – rushed through their respective pre-shoot hair and makeup routines – and Regina rolled her eyes, grumbling about schedules and responsibility and planning. 

And Emma was blushing. 

They were stationed next to each other – and Killian knew that was part of Zelena’s plan to  _ play _ this out in front of cameras – but he couldn’t bring himself to be frustrated, not when he couldn’t get the picture of Emma Swan pressed up against the side of his shower out of his mind every time he closed his eyes. 

Regina was explaining the rules and he should have listened, but he didn’t, eyes darting towards Emma’s more often than not, pulling away quickly as soon as she looked his direction – like they were in eighth grade and not the vaguely responsible adults who had spent the entire morning memorizing each other. 

He thought he remembered Regina saying something about how this would be  _ different _ than actual Cupcake Wars, as if he knew what actual Cupcake Wars entailed, but he had, at least, a quarter of a plan, and that was all he really needed. 

Someone out of frame shouted  _ time _ and three other chefs moved – Killian stayed rooted to his spot, not entirely sure what it was he was supposed to be baking. 

“You look a little shell-shocked,” Emma said, head turned towards him as she cracked eggs into a bowl, a whisk stuffed into the back pocket of her jeans. 

“I wasn’t really paying attention.”  
  
“I noticed that.” Killian rolled his eyes, bending to grab a mixer from underneath his station. “Luckily for you, they’ve taken pity on us poor non-bakers and we’ve only got to make a _classic_ cupcake for the first round. Which is something you could probably do in your sleep, so, get mixing. Unless you’d like to stare at me some more.”  
  
He flashed his eyes towards her, matching her smirk with one of his own and maybe this wouldn’t end up on camera – that was absolutely wishful thinking. Regina told them the night before Zelena was considering putting their own personal camera on the two of them so they didn’t miss any potential banter. 

It was all on camera. 

“That seemed like a compliment and an insult in one sentence, Swan,” Killian laughed, dumping flour into the mixer without actually measuring it.

“It absolutely was.”

She raised her eyebrows at him, challenging him to argue with her and he couldn’t, too busy staring at her again and the way her eyes, somehow, seemed to get greener when they were talking. He tried not to read too much into that. 

“Although,” Killian said, staring at the mixer as he dumped in vanilla and eggs, “if you want to get technical, me staring at you is more a compliment for you and less of an insult to me.”  
  
“If I wanted to get technical?”  
  
He hummed in agreement, yanking the contraption open so he could push a spoon into the dough and start mixing it by hand. He could feel her behind her – the sound of her sneakers on the floor no longer necessary to announce her arrival – and her hand landed flat on his back, warmth seeping across his skin as soon as she touched the fabric. 

“What are you doing?” he asked, dumping sugar into the mix and more vanilla. 

“Getting technical,” Emma answered. “And also distracting you.”  
  
She swiped her thumb across his cheek and he was positive his eyes widened to dangerous proportions at the touch, leaving a trail of flour across his skin with a satisfied smile on her face. “That’s hardly fair, love,” he muttered, keeping his voice low so it wouldn’t catch on camera. 

Emma shrugged. “Now everyone’s got something to stare at. You’re quite a mess in the kitchen, Lieutenant.” 

She walked away without another word, hitting a button on her mixer and yanking the bowl out form underneath it as she poured dough into cupcake tins, stuffing them in the oven and getting to work on her frosting. 

Killian reached his hand up, knuckle brushing away the flour she’d left on his face and he was still staring at her – still on camera as much as he had been a few minutes before. He was also properly distracted. 

It didn’t really matter. 

He had a plan after all. 

He all but threw his cupcake tins into the oven, turning the timer and grabbing a whisk to make the same whipped cream topping he and Emma had come up with a few days before. That would be the only good thing about his cupcakes. 

He’d decided as soon as they’d walked out of his apartment – or maybe when Emma was pressed up against his shower wall, voice inching through him and keeping that fire alight even after they’d run out of hot water. 

Killian was going to lose. 

He was going to take himself out of the cupcake equation. He was going to make sure she, at least, got to the final round. Emma’d gotten her show back – and while he was adamant that the return to ten o’clock had absolutely nothing to do with anything except her incredible ability to cook on TV – he wasn’t willing to let her lose any ground. 

He was going to lose. And he was going to make sure she stayed firmly in the spotlight. 

They called time faster than he expected – which seemed to go well with his plan – and the four of them were called to present cupcakes to the judges. 

Emma had made whipped cream frosting too and that made his heart swell a bit and he couldn’t quite resist the urge to brush his fingers against hers, hands twisting behind their back so as not to end up on camera. Her shoulders dropped a bit when Killian’s hand touched hers, eyes darting towards him and he was glad he was going to lose. 

Belle’s was, as expected, the favorite, but Emma had gotten solid reviews from the small panel of judges that regularly appeared on Cupcake Wars. 

And he’d used that to his advantage. 

Because Tink was there. And Tink hated chocolate. And if it got him cut once, it would get him cut again. So Killian had loaded up his cupcake with chocolate chips and melted ganache on top of his whipped cream frosting and, for good measure, left out baking soda. 

The judges eyebrows pulled low when they got to his offering – forks pushing into the cupcake with barely any enthusiasm and Killian bit the inside of his lip to keep himself from smiling. 

Losing was more fun than he expected. 

“This is, uh, something,” Tink said and Killian nodded slowly, arms crossed over his chest. “Lots of chocolate.”  
  
He could feel Emma’s eyes on his face and Graham was smiling next to him – certain he’d move on to the next round – and Belle looked a bit disappointed. 

“Did you forget baking soda?” Archie asked, tugging apart the cupcake with his fork until it was a crumby mess on the plate they’d provided him. 

“Ah, maybe,” Killian sighed and Emma’s entire body was turned towards him in question. He tried not to meet her gaze. 

Archie nodded slowly, pushing crumbs around again like that was going to make the cupcake taste better or less dense. “It’s, uh, it’s something” he said, repeating Tink's words, and Killian hummed in agreement, rolling back on his heels. 

Emma’s mouth was hanging open. 

“Well,” Tink said sharply, drawing the attention of all four chefs and, at least, half a dozen cameras. “With that in mind, we’ve come to our decision and, I’m sorry, Killian, but we’ve cut you. That certainly wasn’t your best effort and the lack of baking soda made sure your cupcake didn’t rise at all. It was just very, very dense. And very, very chocolatey.”  
  
Killian nodded once, trying to keep his face impassive, particularly with Emma’s eyes boring a hole in the side of his head. “Thanks,” he said. 

The out-of-frame voice called  _ cut _ and everyone took a deep breath, the lights of the show set catching up with them – it was all very bright for a show with  _ Wars _ in the title. Regina’s heels came up quickly behind him, a look of pure anger on her face, and Emma was still standing next to him, eyes wide and mouth open and confusion practically radiating off her. 

“Swan,” he said slowly, stepping into her line of vision and reaching out to grab her wrist. She shook her head, sidestepping him and moving towards Archie’s plate where the remnants of his broken-up cupcake were. 

She didn’t even bother with a fork – and in any other situation that would have been endearing – grabbing a piece of cupcake and popping it in her mouth, eyebrows pulled low as she chewed. “This isn’t good,” she mumbled, surprise coloring the sentence. 

“What did you do?” Regina asked sharply, a stark reminder that she was still standing next to him. 

“I forgot baking soda,” he said, like that was a simple answer to a simple question. Neither Regina, nor Emma looked convinced. 

“Uh, Killian?” He spun around at the sound of another voice behind him, face to face with a slightly nervous-looking Belle who still had an apron wrapped around her waist. “Do you think I could talk to you for a second?”

He glanced back over his shoulder at Emma, another piece of cupcake in her hand like she was staging some sort of crime scene investigation to figure out why it wasn’t good, and he nodded back at Belle, taking a step towards the corner of the set. “Yeah, of course, let’s just go over here.”   
  
She followed him without question, which seemed almost unfair because he had about half a dozen questions sitting on the tip of his tongue. Killian crossed his arms, leaning against the corner of the wall and he  _ knew _ Emma was still watching them. 

“What’s going on?” he asked, Belle’s eyes trained on the tiled floor under her feet. 

“I, well, I probably shouldn’t say anything,” she said, mumbling the words softly in the direction of her shoes. “But I...I think you deserve to know.”  
  
“Know what?”  
  
“What you’re getting yourself into with Robert Gold.”

And that was probably the last thing he expected to hear. Killian’s head shot up – the force of it actually making his neck ache a little bit – and he uncrossed his arms quickly, pushing his back farther into the corner to make sure he kept upright. “How do you know Robert Gold?” he asked. “And how do you know that I know Robert Gold?”

Belle laughed softly, pushing the sides of her hair back behind her ears and, not for the first time, Killian found himself wondering why these breaks in between shooting were so ridiculously long when everyone seemed so focused on maintaining some sort of schedule. 

“Do you want the long story or the short one?” Belle asked. 

“Probably the long one, I’m far too curious about the details not to get them now.”  
  
Belle’s smile widened and she took a deep breath, nodding once like she was trying to psych herself up for the explanation. “Did you know I used to be married?” she asked, glancing down, almost instinctively, to look at her very ringless left hand. Killian shook his head and she took another deep breath. “Yup, to a man I met when I first moved up here. He owned the building of the bakery I worked at.”  
  
Killian’s eyes went wide and Belle’s smile looked a bit sadder now. She shrugged. “You’re perceptive.”  
  
“It’s a gift.”  
  
“Anyway,” she laughed, “I met Robert when he came in to talk to my boss and, you know the story – smalltown girl meets big-town real estate mogul and is, immediately, swept off her feet by his worldly knowledge and ability to get reservations at top restaurants and, for awhile, I thought it was good. I thought he was good.”  
  
“But?” Killian prompted, pressing his weight into the balls of his feet. Emma hadn’t moved away from her station, leaning up against the counter and trying to look like she was taking a drink of water. 

“But,” Belle repeated. “It didn’t take long to figure out that I was never going to be enough. He wants to be the best, you know, the biggest and the most important and the most _powerful_ and he thinks the only way to do that is by owning. And he’s not too concerned with whether or not he’s owning the buildings or the people who pay for them.”  
  
“I told him I wasn’t interested in his deal.”  
  
“You made a deal?”  
  
“You didn’t know that?”  
  
“Will left that part out,” Belle muttered, half to herself, and Killian had a whole new slew of questions to ask. 

“Wait, wait, back up. Will? As in Will Scarlet? As in the bartender at my restaurant?”

Belle’s whole face turned crimson and she pushed her hair behind her ears again, shifting back and forth on her feet. “I didn’t know that to begin with, if we’re being completely upfront here.”

“How did you meet Will? Are you dating Will? Oh my God, how long have you been dating Will?”

Belle’s whole body sagged and she pulled her lips back behind her teeth, rolling her eyes quickly. “One,” she ticked up a finger as she spoke. “Robin introduced us. Weeks ago after he stocked my show. Said he had a friend and the whole,  cliché nine yards. Two, I have absolutely no idea because, as I’m sure you’ve picked up, Will isn’t exactly one to bare his feelings out loud. And, three, as previously mentioned, months ago.”  
  
Killian let out a laugh that bordered on disbelief and, he hoped, didn’t paint him as a complete asshole. And then he remembered that Will Scarlett was also, apparently, telling his maybe-girlfriend about his business ventures and restaurant expansion and partnership with a man who, it turned, was just as much of a dick as he assumed he was. 

“Robin’s very good at interfering in other people’s business,” Killian said. 

“It’s going ok.”  
  
“How come you haven’t come to The Jolly? If you’re dating Will you should come to The Jolly. I’m sure he’d want to flaunt his bartending skills in front of you.”

“He didn’t want me to come while you were still trying to figure things out with Emma,” Belle said, rushing over the words quickly and he needed to blink before his eyes dried out. “Something about flaunting when you were wallowing. It was kind of nice, actually, despite the way it sounds.”

It was nice. Even though it didn’t sound that way. 

And Killian was struck with that overwhelming feeling of family and how much he should tell Emma. Still. Maybe when they had their clothes on. 

“That’s Will’s way of being nice,” Killian said, earning a soft laugh from Belle. 

“You really made a deal with Robert?”  
  
“When we first started the expansion, he was incredibly focused on this all-star thing and what it’d mean to my status or celebrity or whatever. And he wanted me to win. And I wanted to win then too, agreed to do that and win the whole thing in exchange for cuts on the cost of getting the building and the expansion. It was never in writing though.”  
  
Belle sighed softly, tongue poking in between her lips like she was concentrating on something very particular. “He won’t care,” she said softly and it felt like her voice was inside his head, ricocheting off his ear drums. Or maybe the studio was falling down. 

He pressed his back against the wall even harder, stuffing his hand into his pocket with as much force as he could muster. “What do you mean?”  
“I mean it doesn’t matter that it wasn’t in writing or legal. He won’t care. Robert believes in deals and bargains and handshakes even more than he believes in the actual law. If you agreed to a deal, he’s not just going to let you walk away from it.”  
  
Killian’s eyes darted towards Emma, still leaning against her station, her head tilted towards Ruby – they were talking about Henry, he could barely make out the conversation from his spot a few feet away. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to make sure he kept breathing like a normal human being and not the suddenly anxious person he actually was. 

“Why did you back out?” Belle asked and he knew her gaze had followed his – to Emma. “Oh,” she said softly, hand falling on his shoulder without a second thought. 

“She needed to win to get her show back,” he said softly. 

“I heard she got that.”  
  
“She did.”  
  
“And you still lost on purpose today.”

It wasn’t a question and that meant something – he turned slightly to meet Belle’s knowing gaze and felt one side of his mouth pull up. “She’s worried still. Zelena’s not guaranteeing ten o’clock and she needs to keep up the all-star hype to keep her numbers up.”  
  
“I watched her holiday special. You two were really good together.”  
  
“You watched that?”  
  
Belle nodded quickly – like it wasn’t absurdly _nice_ of her to spend her Sunday morning watching him flirt on camera with Emma Swan. “You don’t watch other shows on your own network?” Killian shook his head quickly, laughing under his breath and twisting his lips slightly. “You should tell Emma about Robert,” she continued. “He’s not going to be happy you lost today, even if he knew you weren’t explicitly trying to win anymore. He’s got people everywhere, all kinds of things he can do to make this restaurant expansion less than pleasant.”  
  
“He’s still going to get paid,” Killian argued. “He’s actually getting paid more now.”

“And he still won’t care. He cares about the deal.”  
  
His mind raced back a few days before – to the reporter asking Zelena’s assistant for comments on his relationship with Emma and, for the second time that day, it felt like the studio was caving in. They shouldn’t have ever left his apartment. 

Or maybe he shouldn’t have ever agreed to this stupid all-star thing. 

And he wouldn’t have met Emma. 

And his stomach clenched at that. 

Killian breathed in slowly, trying to keep himself from yanking all the oxygen out of the room. “There was a reporter,” he said softly and Belle’s eyes widened. “Asking about us. A couple of days ago.”

Belle’s shoulders straightened and she pressed her lips together tightly again as Regina announced the break offer, calling Killian to the other side of the studio to film his talking head about losing on purpose. She absolutely knew he lost on purpose. 

Everyone knew. 

“You have to tell her,” Belle said again, walking by him and heading back towards her station. “Soon.”  
  
He took another deep breath, shoulders moving dramatically as he did and he followed the sound of Regina’s commands towards the side studio, Emma’s gaze following him the entire way. He stopped quickly next to her, brushing his lips against her temple and squeezing her hand in his. 

Emma smiled at him  – the effect making everything he’d done that day absolutely worth it – and rose up on tiptoes to catch her lips with his. So much for under the radar. 

“Your cupcake was horrible,” she said softly and he felt all the air rush out of his lungs, laughing softly and, for a moment, forgetting the conversation he’d just had with Belle. 

“Yeah, but you still ate it,” he pointed out. 

There were other people around. 

If this wasn’t him and it wasn’t her and it wasn’t  _ them, _  he would hate them. As it were, it was them and her and him and he loved it a lot. 

He should tell her that. 

“Killian,” Regina cried sharply, standing in the doorway and the look on her face was bordering dangerously close to  _ dark. _  “We could be done by now.”  
  
“I think you better go,” Emma said, tugging on one of his belt loops to prove her point. 

“I expect to eat a winning cupcake later. And stop stealing my frosting recipe.”  He kissed her again quickly – enjoying the soft gasp at the movement and the accusation – squeezing his hand on her hip before turning towards Regina. “Careful,” he said, pushing through the doorway past her. “Your face could freeze like that.”   
  
She huffed out a breath of very frustrated air, yanking open the door and Killian braced himself for the onslaught of angry critiques and questions about  _ where his head was at, _  but they never came. Instead she leaned against the door when it closed behind them and stared at him meaningfully. 

“Tell her you love her,” she said simply. “And then tell Will he can bring his girlfriend to The Jolly too.”

And then she set off down the hallway, leaving him to follow behind her quickly and figure out a way to keep his mouth closed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooo well that happened. A lot? A lot happened. Also. Let it be known that I do realize that there are partners on the real Cupcake Wars, but that would have been too many metaphorical cooks in the kitchen. That was the worst pun ever. I'm keeping it. As always, I can't thank you guys enough for every click, comment and kudo you've left on this story. It absolutely blows my mind every time. 
> 
> And, as always, Lauren is the absolute best who makes this all make sense. Come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	28. Chapter 28

He had cheated.

Or not cheated.

Emma wasn’t concerned with the specifics. The only thing she knew was that Killian had lost on purpose and she didn’t appreciate it all that much.

Or at all.

She didn’t appreciate it at all.

Because she didn’t need anyone to fight her wars for her – cupcake or otherwise. And now she didn’t just have to deal with the cupcakes, she had to deal with her restless mind at the idea that he’d cheated for her.

“You probably should have won,” Belle said, falling into step beside Emma as they walked down the hallway towards the smaller studio on the floor, set to film their post-round talking heads.

Emma scoffed, but couldn’t stop herself from smiling at the sentiment. “Please,” she said, shaking her her head for good measure. “You literally built your entire career on your ability to make cupcakes. I never even stood a chance. And anyway, I’m not much for themes. My creativity is a bit lacking in that department.”  
  
“But you did that Christmas episode.”   
  
“Holiday,” Emma muttered without thinking about it. Belle laughed quietly and nodded solemnly, lips pressed together into a tight smile.

“You did a Halloween episode too.”  
  
“That was all Ruby’s idea. And that was only to try and drive up viewership. Trust me, in a normal TV world, I wouldn’t have ever even considered that.”   
  
“Is there such a thing as a normal TV world?” Belle asked, smiling over shoulder at Emma as she pushed her way into the studio.

“Probably not,” she admitted. “If there was, I wouldn’t have made it to the finals of some sort of Cupcake Wars all-stars show.”  
  
“Because Killian’s actually really good at baking?”   
  
Emma’s eyebrows pulled low and she stopped walking immediately, coming up short of her designated chair. Belle smiled at her, sinking into her own chair and crossing her legs as if she didn’t have a care in the world. “He is,” Emma said softly, not sure if that was information she should just be doling out.

She wouldn’t have wanted people to know she made stress-french toast.

It felt like a secret.

Or something.

They probably shouldn’t have ever left his apartment. It had been easier there, quieter,  _nicer._  It had been so goddamn nice Emma couldn’t quite think straight when she did think about it. And she’d been thinking about it quite a bit.   
  
Maybe that’s why she’d lost in the final.

Maybe that’s why she wasn’t quite as creative when it came to creative baking challenges.

She was far too preoccupied with how  _nice_ it had been and how it was easy to talk to him and how comfortable she’d been waking up next to him – again. And how he’d tried to take himself out of the baking equation  _for her._

Emma tried not to roll her eyes, still as  _annoyed_ with the sentiment of it all, but maybe she was just kind of overwhelmed too.  

And absurdly happy.

Belle was still smiling, twisting her body slightly so a tech could mic her up in the chair. “Will told me,” she said, answering the question Emma hadn’t actually asked.

And that sparked a whole new slew of questions – even bigger than the ones she’d already tried to put into words. “What?” she asked, a wholly underwhelming response with her mouth half hanging open and her eyes blinking almost hyperactively.

“Will Scarlet,” Belle clarified, pushing her hair behind her ears and leaning against the back of the chair as the tech walked away.

Someone ushered Emma towards the other side of the room – determined to mic  _her_ up as quickly as possible – but she brushed them off quickly, eyes darting towards Belle. “Like Killian’s bartender?”

Belle nodded. “That was Killian’s response too.”  
  
“Is that what you were talking about?” The question came out before Emma could stop herself, curiosity practically pouring out of her mouth, and Belle’s smile disappeared quickly, jaw practically snapping shut as soon as the words settled in the air.  

She didn’t get an answer though – Ruby sweeping into the studio with all the tact of a gale-force wind or some kind of large-scale natural disaster, heels snapping on the floor loudly as she forcibly pushed Emma into the recording booth on the other side of the room. “If you do this quickly,” Ruby snapped, “we can all get out of here. And I know you want to get out of here. Because I know you didn’t want to be here.”

Emma groaned, but couldn’t bring herself to disagree with her producer. Because these days were long and exhausting and she hadn’t ever really wanted to get out of bed – and she hadn’t seen Killian since he walked off set hours ago.

And maybe she was preoccupied with  _that_ too.

She was a conflicted mess.

“Make sure to point out that you don’t ever bake,” Ruby said, hand pushing down on Emma’s shoulder so she’d sit down in her designated seat. “And even making it to the final was some kind of victory. And don’t talk about how your boyfriend lost for you on purpose.”

The groan was louder this time, but it was still drowned out by Ruby’s laughter as she walked out of the studio, yanking the door shut behind her.

Emma dutifully answered all her questions –  _baking’s not really my thing, I just wanted to stay true to what I know, the important thing for me was the flavors_ – and, as Ruby promised, it didn’t take long for her to finish once she’d actually started.

She hadn’t expected anyone to be in hair and makeup when she walked in – hoping to just grab her phone and then, maybe, make it home before Henry did.

She should have realized he wouldn’t have left without saying anything and, for a moment, she felt her cheeks actually flush with warmth when she saw him sitting in one of the chairs – feet propped up on the counter, phone in his hand and a plastic plate resting on his thigh.

He was eating her cupcake.

Of course he was.

And Emma’s face felt like it was on fire.

“Where did you get the plate?” she asked, enjoying the way Killian jumped slightly at the sound of her voice.

He turned in the chair, pushing his phone into his jacket pocket as he moved, eyes wide, but the smile on his face made Emma bite her lip instinctively. “Would you believe I found them in one of the cabinets underneath the judge’s table?”  
  
“Honestly?”   
  
“I’d hardly lie about stealing plates.”

Emma nodded, walking around him to lean against the same counter his feet were resting on. She reached out, grabbing a piece of cupcake – mostly to hear the slightly stunned noise he made when she stole her own food from him.

“Get your own cupcake,” he mumbled, fingers brushing over her wrist and making her whole arm explode in goosebumps.

“That is my cupcake.”  
  
“Yeah, well you stole my frosting recipe.”   
  
“Yeah, well you cheated.”   
  
Killian’s eyes narrowed quickly and he pulled his feet off the counter, sitting up straighter. “I lost in the first round.”   
  
“On purpose.”   
  
She didn’t blink, leaning forward to pull the plate out of his hand and eat the rest of the cupcake. He didn’t move either – a statue of surprise and _absurdly_ blue eyes in the middle of an otherwise abandoned hair and makeup room. “That’s quite an accusation to level, Swan,” he said and she could tell he was trying to keep his voice light.

“And one hundred percent correct.”  
  
“Prove it.”   
  
“You forgot baking soda.”   
  
The smirk moved across his face in slow motion, hand reaching out even slower to rest on Emma’s knee and she tried to keep her ground. She was angry. Or frustrated. Or certain she didn’t  _need_ him to do anything for her.

The fact that she might have  _wanted_ something from him was a completely different matter. And, absolutely, the crux of her problem.

“I don’t know that proves anything, love,” Killian laughed, hand tightening slightly. “Maybe my mind was just otherwise occupied.  _Maybe,_  I just wasn’t particularly interested in making cupcakes all afternoon when I didn’t really enjoy the cupcakes forcing me out of bed earlier this morning.”   
  
“The cupcakes forced you out of bed? That’s not how I remember it.”  
  
“And how exactly do you remember it?”   
  
He was in her space before she’d even realized he’d stood up, knee nudging against the front of her thighs until Emma couldn’t help but move them, Killian stepping in between them and resting both of his hands on her hips.

She tilted her head, staring at him appraisingly, but, this time,  _he_ didn’t blink and that wasn’t fair at all. His eyes were too blue and too serious and too full of something Emma absolutely refused to name.

This was supposed to be easy.

It was supposed to be fun and simple and he was supposed to just be like everyone else. He’d leave eventually and Emma would figure it out and chalk it all up to experience or something equally as bitter.

Except that’s not how it felt.

It felt like she loved him – she  _absolutely_ loved him – and maybe he loved her and that might have made this the least simple thing in the world.

Her hand had drifted to the top of his jeans, fingers flitting over the belt he had on and Killian squeezed his eyes shut tightly, practically yanking the breath into his lungs, like he couldn’t quite get enough of it at once.   
  
“Emma,” he said and for the enormous breath he’d just taken, his voice seemed just a bit breathless. And that wasn’t really fair either.

“Why’d you cheat?”

“That’s not what I asked.”  
  
“Yeah, well that’s the answer you’re getting.”   
  
He sighed again, opening his eyes quickly and flashing her something that might have been construed as frustration before taking a step back and sinking into the chair again. “You can’t cheat if you lose, Swan. That’s just not how it works.”   
  
“Then explain to me how it works, because, for the life of me, I can’t quite figure it out.”   
  
Killian rolled his head back slightly, hand pushing into his hair, but Emma stood her ground, crossing her arms across her chest and waiting for an answer. “You really can’t?” he asked softly, staring at the tiled ceiling above him.

“Nope.”  
  
“Huh.”   
  
“You’re still not doing a very good job of answering the question, you know.”   
  
“I just figured it’d be kind of obvious,” he muttered, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his thighs. “I don’t need to win this all-star thing. And I don’t have any interest in competing against you if I don’t have to. So, alright, fine, I cheated and I forgot baking soda on purpose and made sure to put as much chocolate as I could on one cupcake because I knew it’d get me cut. Was that what you wanted to hear?”   
  
“Not really,” Emma said, dragging her foot across the floor slowly.

“What would have been better?”  
  
“You don’t have to fight my battles for me. And I don’t really have to win this all-star thing anymore either. At least not technically.”   
  
“Yeah, but you said Zelena told you nothing was set in stone. So making it to the finals or at least having a shot at winning would help, right?” Emma  
nodded. “Then it was worth it.”   
  
She sighed again, twisting her mouth almost painfully as she wrung her hands together quickly, knuckles cracking as she moved. Killian slid off the chair, pulling her hands apart and lacing his fingers through hers, holding on tightly as he stood next to her.

“I don’t doubt that you can do all of this on your own,” he said softly, eyes focused on his feet or the tiny scuff mark her sneakers had left on the floor. “I know you can.”  
  
“Then why?”   
  
His shoulders moved and she could feel him staring at her when he talked, hand tightening again – but Emma wasn’t sure if he meant to do that or not. “I care about you,” he said slowly after a few moments, voice measured, like he was focusing on each letter in each word, determined not to stutter over anything.

“And I want you to get what you want. Maybe even more than what I want. You can do it on your own. I know you can, because that’s what you’ve been doing forever. I never once doubted you’d get your show back, Swan, but if there are still question marks or what-ifs or anything, then I want to be able to help answer them.”  
  
The inside of her mouth was bleeding – teeth pressed so tightly on her lip that Emma had actually drawn blood. And it hadn’t even been worth it because she could still feel the moisture pooling in the corner of her eyes and her heart felt like it had fallen out of rhythm, stuttering in her chest.

Killian shifted on his feet when she didn’t answer immediately – and Emma was suddenly struck with the realization that he was just as nervous and vaguely terrified of this as she was. She turned on him, stepping around so her hand was on his chest and his whole body seemed to sag at the contact.

He smiled softly at her, thumb brushing against her cheek when she couldn’t quite hold back the emotions threatening to overwhelm her. “I shouldn’t have done it,” Killian said and his voice wasn’t quite as confident now, eyes focused on the movement of his thumb as it dropped down to her jaw. “I just...I want you to be happy, Swan.”  
  
And maybe her heart actually stopped beating at that.

Or maybe it started beating out double-time, pulse picking up to match its rhythm and Emma’s whole body surged up at the words, catching his mouth before he’d really even finished the sentence.

She kissed him like she loved him – a contradiction of emotions that made her head spin, but had somehow found a way to ground her at the same time. He moved with her, hand pushed into her hair and prosthetic resting on her back and hips arching up on their own, a vaguely desperate move that made Emma want to bite her lip again.

“That was how I remembered this morning,” she mumbled, body held tight against him when he refused to move his hand away from her back. “For the record.”

“Duly noted.”  
  
“And I care about you too.” He smiled widely at her, eyes flashing back down towards her lips for a moment. “Add that to the record too.”

“Good to know.”  
  
“I didn’t appreciate the cupcakes forcing me out of bed this morning either. As much as the cupcakes themselves were forcing us and not some sort of weird celebrity status and commitment to this network.”   
  
“You are full of updates and information aren’t you, Swan?” Killian asked, grinning at her and his hand hadn’t moved out of her hair.

“Well, I didn’t have anyone to banter with while I was filming. That left me with a lot of time to just ponder things.”  
  
“Ponder things?” he repeated, laughter creeping into the words. She shrugged and tried to move – a bit desperate for an inch or two of space so she didn’t do something ridiculous like jump him in the middle of the hair and makeup room. Killian’s arm tightened around her waist, prosthetic pressing into her back now. “You mean to tell me that you couldn’t banter with Graham or Belle?”   
  
Emma rolled her eyes. “You know I couldn’t.”   
  
“You think that has something to do with me?” Killian asked, eyes going wide with an attempt at innocence. It didn’t work.

At all.

“Please. Of course not.”  
  
“You wound me, Swan.”   
  
“I think you’ll recover.”   
  
Killian’s head tilted back towards, lips brushing across Emma’s quickly as his phone vibrated in his pocket, pushing against her side and she couldn’t help the laughter that escaped. He groaned against her, less entertained by the interruption than she was, leaning back to yank the still-buzzing device out and glare at it.

“Everything ok?” Emma asked, fingers moving up and down the back of his neck. Killian nodded stiffly, the muscles under her hand going stiff quickly.

She didn’t believe him.

And he knew she didn’t.

“It’s fine, Swan,” he said, but the lack of confidence in his voice was obvious. “Robin’s just losing his mind.”  
  
“About?”   
  
“Several things, but mostly our court date tomorrow.”   
  
“That’s tomorrow?”   
  
“He wanted to try and get it out of the way quickly.”   
  
Emma nodded slowly, understanding the desire to protect your kid and their interests and the people who had control of that kid’s life.

It had taken nearly a year of paperwork and more red tape and questions to make sure that David and Mary Margaret would be Henry’s legal guardians if anything happened to her and Emma could only imagine the kind of blocked doors Robin had come up against while trying to deal with adoption.

She was lost in her own thoughts – memories of hours spent filling out paperwork and full days in a conference room in Portland, flanked by David and Ruth while they tried to adopt  _her_ – when Killian muttered her name and her snapped up quickly.

“What?” Emma asked, sharper than she intended and his eyebrows shot up.

“You alright?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” she mumbled. “I just...I understand what he’s going through.” Killian nodded seriously, eyes darkening slightly and the small smile on his face seemed to settle in pit of Emma’s stomach. “It’s good that Roland has you,” Emma continued, words rushing out of her mouth quickly, like they were trying to match her pulse and the beat of her heart. “Robin and Regina too. It’s not easy, what they’re trying to do.”   
  
“They’re already a family, but Gina deserves this. It might not show all the time, but she cares about things and I don’t know that she cares about anything more than Rol. She loves him like he’s hers already. He should be.”

And she should have stopped her mind from going to that place, from picturing up some sort of future that him in it with her and Henry and days full of paperwork and court rooms and character witnesses.

She didn’t.

She let the vision creep behind her eyes and into the back of her mind and Emma knew, without question, it wouldn’t go away anytime soon.

“You keep going all glassy, Swan,” Killian said, hand brushing against her side lightly to get her attention again.

“Am I?” she asked, knowing the answer already. “Sorry.”  
  
“What are you thinking?”   
  
“What happened to open book?”

He laughed under his breath, fingers finding their way underneath the hem of her shirt. “I don’t want to assume.”  
  
“You’re very good at surprising me, you know.”   
  
“Is that what you were thinking?”   
  
“Something like that.”

“What about what it is exactly?”  
  
Emma pressed her lips together tightly, focusing on breathing through her nose slowly – and not on the feel of his fingers on her skin or the vaguely ridiculous desire to have him come back home with her, indefinitely – so she’d stay standing upright.

“You’re just not what I thought,” she said slowly. Killian cocked his head to the side, the smile turning into a smirk and his fingers moved out from underneath her shirt.

“And what did you think?”  
  
“Well, we’ve been over that. I thought you were cocky and over-confident and, probably, my biggest competition on this show.”   
  
“Am I not all of those things?”   
  
“Sure, but you’re also a lot more than that.”   
  
The smirk was practically teasing her now and Emma wished he’d touch her again. This would be easier if he was touching her. “I feel like I’m begging for information, Swan.”   
  
She sighed, rolling her whole body for exaggerated effect and reached out to wrap her fingers with his. Killian’s eyes darted down – like he was surprised she’d moved towards him like that and that almost made it seem like they were on even footing.

“You really are a hero,” she said softly, ducking her head to force her way into his gaze.

“We’ve been over that,” Killian countered, repeating her words back to her and Emma was shaking her head in disagreement before he’d even closed his mouth.

“I'm serious. You don’t have to do this for Robin and Regina. You didn’t have to give Will a job or give David eighteen chances to prove he’s not an asshole. And you certainly didn’t have to take yourself out of the equation today as absolutely misplaced as  _that_ decision was. But you did and that’s because you care. About all of it.”  
  
“Mostly you,” he said quickly. And Emma got the distinct impression he hadn’t meant to actually say it, the mix of surprise and slight terror on his face all the evidence she needed.

“What?” Emma asked, hand tightening.

Killian’s shoulders heaved and he ran his tongue over his bottom lip before answering. “You,” he repeated, nodding as he spoke. “I mostly care about you.”  
  
She all but threw her arms around his neck, pushing up on toes until her heels popped out of her shoes and his hands landed on her waist again, tugging her flush against his chest. And she should have told him then, should have corrected him, told him she didn’t just  _care_ , but loved him – in a way that was creating flashes of a future she hadn’t even considered a possibility a few months before.

She didn’t. Of course. Because as soon as his teeth tugged on her lip and his hand made its way back underneath her shirt, Emma couldn’t think of anything except the feel of him and how much she wanted whenever he was in her general vicinity.

He pulled away before she did, peppering kisses across her face and making Emma laugh like she was sixteen years old and sneaking around with her very first boyfriend. Which, to some extent, was actually true.

“What are you going to say tomorrow?” she asked, curiosity getting the better of her again.

Killian tugged her back against his side, slinging his arm over her shoulder and resting his cheek on the top of her head. “Basically what I just told you. Gina’s been a part of that family for five years. Rol barely even remembers Marian and I know she won’t ever be his  _actual_ mom, but she should at least have some sort of legal rights when it comes to parenting him. It only makes sense.”   
  
Emma hummed in agreement, nodding her head slightly underneath his. She felt him take a deep breath against her and knew that  _he_ knew was holding back the questions just on the tip of his tongue. “Go ahead,” he mumbled and laughed, tightening his arm as his body shook against hers.

“You know you’re part of that too.”  
  
Killian stiffened against her, body going taut with tension and all the laughter seemed to fall away from him as soon as the words had left Emma’s mouth. She turned back towards him, fingers wrapping through belt loops again and tugging him closer to her, all but forcing him to look at her. “I’m serious,” Emma said.

“I know you are.”  
  
“Then why the...this?” She yanked her hand away, flailing it slightly in the air and Killian scoffed softly, grabbing her fingers and pulling them up, brushing his lips over her knuckles. “That’s distracting,” Emma mumbled, glaring at him. “I’m trying to make a point.”   
  
“I know that too,” Killian said softly and mostly into her hand. “I’m not missing the point, love, I promise.”   
  
“Why won’t you take my compliments?”

She sounded a bit like her almost-teenage son – or maybe a bit more like the seven-year-old Killian was set to testify on behalf of the next day – but in the grand scheme of emotional upheaval Emma was dealing with, she found herself strangely determined to prove  _this_ point. It was a matter of something – her mind returning to those pictures of a future and that word she refused to actually say out loud and – and she needed him to understand. 

“You’re part of something,” Emma said, barely even giving Killian the chance to actually answer her question. The corners of his mouth ticked up and his thumb traced along the back of her wrist, slowly tracing some sort of pattern on her skin. “You know that right?”  
  
Killian made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat and Emma was suddenly back at square one – frustrated and in possession of, approximately, three dozen different thoughts all at once.

She resisted the very real urge to actually stamp her foot, opting, instead, to pull her hand out of his and earning a flash of very-blue eyes for the movement. “Don’t you want to be?”

“Be what?”

“Part of something.”  
  
“Do you?”   
  
“That didn’t answer my question.”

He sighed softly and the sound seemed to seep into Emma’s soul or something equally ridiculous and she wanted to reach out and grab his hand again. She should probably make up her mind. And then tell him every single thought that had gone through that same mind ever since she’d walked out of his apartment that morning.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, stepping back towards Killian and resting her forehead on his shoulder. His hand landed on her back without a word and they should probably stop having this vaguely overwhelmingly emotional conversations in this building.

“Don’t be,” Killian said, muttering the words in her ear. “You’re right. Of course.”  
  
“Yeah?”

He nodded, cheek brushing up against her hair as his fingers danced along the line of her spine. “Almost always, I’ve found.”  
  
“It was pushing.”   
  
“It was, but I’d imagine in the rules of actual relationships, you’re allowed to push a bit for information out of me.”

“I just think you should get to be as confident as you play,” Emma said, hand falling back on his chest as she looked up at him.

“It’s not so much a lack of confidence as it is an overwhelming amount of want.”  
  
“What do you mean?”   
  
Killian closed his eyes, scrunching them tightly after a moment and his whole body moved with the effort of taking another deep breath. “I mean that I have always wanted that. To be part of something. To have something. My mom was good when we were kids and I remember some of it, but most of my childhood is memories of Liam working his ass off to make sure we didn’t starve and working  _my_ ass off to make sure we didn’t starve and tiny apartments that we could barely afford. And then it was just the Navy and working  _with_ Liam. And then he was gone and the Navy was gone and Milah was…”

He cut himself off quickly, breath hissed through his teeth and his eyes flashing towards Emma like he was nervous he’d said too much. “Gone?” she said softly, one side of her mouth pulled up into something she hoped was almost encouraging.

Killian nodded slowly. “That too. They were all gone. Regina and Robin have been good at filling that distinct lack-of-a-family hole and I love Rol like he is actually my kid, but he’s not. And Robin’s not Liam.”  
  
She didn’t say what came next –   _and I’m not Milah_ – but she knew he could practically read her mind, the flash of his eyes so full of every emotion Emma could feel surging through her entire body. “I wouldn’t want you to be,” Killian said softly, answering another unspoken question.

“No?”

“No,” he said and the certainty in his voice made that Emma’s teeth sink back into her lip sharply. “I want quite a bit when I’m with you, Swan.”  
  
Emma opened her mouth, but snapped it closed quickly, not sure what she was actually going to say. Killian smiled at that, eyebrows darting up his forehead as his hand moved back towards her, thumb resuming its pattern like it was an unspoken attempt to keep her calm when they were treading towards overwhelming and pushing and a slew of potentially too-soon emotions.

It was working.

“That’s why I lost,” he said, glancing down when Emma’s fingers wrapped around his arm, landing just above his brace. “Because I want you and for you and with you, if that even makes any sense. I didn’t think I could do that, not for a long time, at least not when the want was solely based in jealousy and I know that’s a lot, but, well, you’ve made me believe, Swan. That I could be part of something.”  
  
She moved before her mind could catch up, before she’d even really processed what he’d said, just twisted his shirt in her hand, tugging him back towards her and crashing her lips against his, appreciating the soft groan he let out at the movement.

“I just want you to be happy,” Killian said, practically whispering the words against Emma’s mouth when she stopped kissing him – realizing the need for air was actually a bit of a necessity.

“I am.”

And it felt like a promise.

It was.

She was happy. And in over her head. And absolutely ok with it.

She wasn’t mad he’d lost anymore.

Because it felt like something bigger.

And maybe he loved her back.

She kept her fingers in his hair, palm flat on his cheek and Killian twisted his head slightly, brushing his lips against her skin. “I feel like we’re tempting fate a bit still being in here,” he laughed, glancing around the somehow-still-empty room.

“That’s true. Where does Regina think you are?”  
  
“Probably back at The Jolly. Where does Ruby think you are?”   
  
“Probably back at The Jolly,” Emma admitted, smile nearly hurting her face it was so wide. “She was awfully smug about getting here late this morning.”   
  
“I wouldn’t have pegged her for being dedicated to a specific schedule.”   
  
“It wasn’t that,” she corrected quickly. Killian widened his eyes, surprise clouding the blue. “Ruby’s been trying to get me out and having a life literally since the day she met me. And despite some early concerns, she’s one hundred percent in your camp now. Between her and M’s, I’m surprised you haven’t been sent flowers. ‘Thanks for making Emma less of a stick in the mud’ or something.”

He barked out a laugh and Emma almost fell against him – not that she thought he would have objected to that, despite tempting fate – and she was slightly stunned at how quickly they’d gone from a tear-stained, emotion-filled discussion to making out against a makeup counter teasing each other because they’d been late to set.

It felt good.

It felt real.

Jeez. She was absolutely in over her head.

“I don’t think you’re a stick in the mud, Swan,” he said, voice shaking with the laughter he was desperately trying to keep in check.

“Yeah, that’s because you only know exciting-Emma. The one who’s willing to show up late to set this morning. The Emma of last year would have been scandalized at even the thought.”  
  
“And what do you think helped change that?”   
  
“First you wouldn’t take my compliments and now you’re fishing for them.”   
  
“Just searching for a bit of confirmation.”   
  
“I think showing up late was enough confirmation. Also, I already told you I didn’t appreciate the cupcakes forcing me out of bed. And, just to prove my point a bit more, I didn’t even argue when you woke me up before the alarm.”   
  
“I don’t remember you complaining about that, love.”   
  
She couldn’t keep a straight face – maybe she  _was_ regressing to teenager at this point, but Emma couldn’t really blame herself. Her boyfriend was very attractive and very charming and she had fallen for both of them easily.

She rolled her eyes and he chuckled softly at the answer – or lack of an answer – pulling her out towards the door and back into the hallway, clearly, determined not to tempt fate any longer. “It’s not my fault you can’t sleep past dawn,” Emma said, trying to maintain her footing in this conversation she was positive she was losing control of.

“You already pointed out it was a Navy thing. I also seem to remember something about a uniform and dress whites and muttered attractions.”  
  
Emma groaned, leaning against his side as Killian directed them towards the elevator, twisting around her body to hit the button on the wall. “I take it back,” she muttered, leaning against the side of the elevator after the doors slid shut behind them.

“Nope. None of that. Against the rules.”  
  
“What rules?”   
  
“The rules I absolutely just made up.”   
  
“Seems awfully arbitrary.”   
  
Killian shrugged, crossing his feet at the ankles and leveling Emma with a stare that shot straight to her core. “It might be just that.”

“Then I take it back,” Emma said, seizing the opportunity his slightly stunned face gave her to grab his hand and pull him out the once-again open elevator doors. “Although, to be fair, I might be interested in something other than the dress whites.”

“That so?”

Emma pressed her lips together, humming softly in her throat as she threw her hand up to hail a cab. “While I’m sure you did look good in the dress whites, it’s all a little too straight laced for me. I might be more interested in something else.”

“That so?” He pressed his back against the leather seat of the cab they’d slid into, hands resting on his thighs like he was standing at attention, but his eyes darted towards her when he spoke and Emma’s stomach flipped at the look.

“Yuh huh,” she said, trying to keep her voice light.

He turned towards her at the sound, one eyebrow raised and if she didn’t actually melt under his gaze it was some sort of miracle. Emma took a deep breath, hand resting on the space in between them. “You still have that pirate outfit?” she asked softly, practically sprinting over the words.

Killian’s mouth hung open slightly and Emma’s heart plummeted onto the disgusting floor of the cab when he kept staring at her.

He wouldn’t stop staring at her.

“Never mind,” Emma mumbled, trying to slide closer to the other side of the seat as she pulled her hand back towards her chest. He reached out, prosthetic landing on her wrist before she had even gone half an inch.

They were in the back seat of a cab and he couldn’t actually turn on her, couldn’t move so he was in front of her or actually pull her around to meet his gaze, but Killian was inventive, leaning across Emma’s entire body to actually tug on her shirt.

He shook his head slowly, something looking like wonder settling onto his face. “You are incredible, you know that?”

“What?”  
  
“Incredible,” he repeated. “And much more than I deserve.”   
  
“I don’t think that.”   
  
Killian smiled at her, hand wrapping around the curve of her shoulder as the cab pulled to a stop in front of The Jolly. “I do,” he said softly, eyebrows moving quickly. He slid out of the car, holding his hand out to her.

She took it, following him out onto the sidewalk and ignoring the way her stomach flipped at the sight of him – hair moving in the wind and and a smile on his face and his hand still holding hers tightly. “I have to get home,” Emma said, nodding down the block. “Henry’s probably already there. He’ll want a full shooting report.”  
  
“He’s here.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“He’s here,” Killian repeated, tilting his head back slightly at the restaurant behind him.

“What is he doing here?”  
  
“I’d imagine waiting for you.”   
  
“Me?”   
  
“What about this is confusing, Swan?”

“How did he know to be here? How did he get here?”  
  
“Mary Margaret brought him. I have no idea if David’s in there. That wasn’t part of the plan.”   
  
“David doesn’t have to work, so probably,” she muttered. “And there was a plan?”   
  
Killian nodded, pulling Emma around the side of the building towards the back entrance, the sounds of the already-active kitchen floating into the alley. “Of course there was a plan,” he said, sounding slightly surprised that she hadn’t realized there would be. “What do you think Henry and I were talking about last night?”   
  
“I honestly have no idea.”   
  
“You know he wants you to be happy too.”

“And that included figuring out a way to spend the night in your apartment?”  
  
He actually blushed. “Well, not specifically, no. But Mary Margaret’s rather quick on the uptake.”   
  
“And your biggest cheerleader.”   
  
“She’s just smart.”   
  
“Yuh huh,” Emma laughed, shaking her head as she followed him through the kitchen and out into the dining room. Henry and Mary Margaret were stationed at the corner of the bar that had, somehow, become theirs, matching root beer floats in front of them and a plate of onion rings in between. David was on his wife’s other side, his own drink in his hand as he leaned against his palm, talking to Will about something she couldn’t quite hear.

And Emma’s whole body felt like she was looking in on some sort of Norman Rockwell-esque picture of family and together and  _part of something_ and it was better than she thought it could have been.

It was bordering dangerously close to perfect.

She wondered when she’d gotten so sentimental.

Henry spun around at the sound of her sneakers behind him and he nearly dropped the onion ring in his hand. “How’d it go?” he asked, half shouting the question. “Did you guys make it to the finals?”  
  
“Your mom did,” Killian said, hand squeezing Emma’s. “I didn’t.”   
  
“What? What happened? Why didn’t you make cookies?”   
  
“The show is called Cupcake Wars, kid,” Emma said, meeting Mary Margaret’s amused gaze over Henry’s head.

“I bet Killian makes good cupcakes too.”  
  
“Belle won,” Killian said, glancing over the bar. Will’s head snapped up at the name, nearly dropping the glass in his hand. Mary Margaret’s eyes followed his and she lowered her eyebrows questioningly.

“What am I missing?” she asked.

“Will’s dating Belle.”  
  
The glass shattered behind the bar and Will mumbled something, eyes darting at the small crowd assembled in front of him. The door opened at the other end of the restaurant, the entire Locksley family making their way into the dining room. Roland crashed into Killian’s side, despite a quiet  _slow down_ from Regina and he reached down quickly to grab the seven-year-old, hauling him up easily.

“What’s Uncle Will doing?” Roland asked, peering over the side of the bar at the man still crouched on the floor, desperately trying to pick up shards of glass without cutting himself.

“He dropped a glass, mate.”  
  
“You have absolutely no tact,” Regina accused, leaning against the bar and staring at Killian critically. “That’s not how I told you do it.” Robin laughed, rolling his eyes as he moved behind the bar to make his own drink without a word.

“You told him to do this?” Will yelled from the floor. “Why would you do this?”

“When did all of this start?” Mary Margaret asked, scraping her spoon across the inside of her glass.

“That’s a good question,” Killian said, glancing at Will when he stood back up, tossing a handful of broken glass in the garbage behind him. “You tell us, Will.”  
  
The bartender groaned loudly – and Henry laughed loudly, earning a glare for the noise. “A couple of weeks. Maybe like two months.”   
  
“Two months isn’t a couple of weeks,” Henry argued, pulling apart the onion ring in his hand and dipping it into his ice cream.

“That’s gross,” Will said and Henry made a face and this was all  _a lot_. A family. It felt like a family. “And two months is literally the definition of a couple of weeks.”   
  
“You should bring her here,” Killian said, cutting into the almost-argument between a thirty-year-old bartender and almost thirteen-year-old kid in the middle of his restaurant. “You know, whenever you want.”   
  
“Make her bring cupcakes,” Henry said and every adult in the general vicinity chimed in with some kind of discipline of that. He looked a little stunned at the amount of  _parental authority_ he’d stumbled into.

“She does make good cupcakes,” Will mumbled, sounding like he was admitting to murder.

“Bring her,” Killian said. “You know, if you want.”  
  
Will stared at him for a moment – like he was waiting for someone to yell just kidding – but nodded after a few more seconds. “She’d like that.”   
  
“Good.”   
  
He nodded again – grabbing a bottle from underneath the bar and reaching for a handful of shot glasses in front of him, pouring the liquid over them quickly.  “For pre-date good luck. Or something,” he laughed.

They all reached for them, Mary Margaret tapping the side of her glass for more root beer and Emma swatted Henry’s hand away when he reached for the rum a few inches away from him. Killian shifted Roland slightly, holding his glass out to Emma with a smile on his face and something in the corner of his eye.

He looked happy.

“Killian Jones, professional chef and matchmaker,” Emma said, tapping her glass against his before downing it in one gulp.

“No, Swan,” he corrected, drinking his own shot quickly. He didn’t even shake his head when he swallowed the liquid. “Just wanting.”

And it was probably good he was still holding Roland because she would have kissed him and that probably would have scarred her kid for life or something. Killian didn’t seem to mind though, putting the seven-year-old in his arms back on his feet and telling him to go talk to Henry and kissing Emma as soon as they were both occupied.

It  _was_ a family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emotions. And more emotions. And eventually they will actually tell each other they're both absolutely insanely in love with each other. I promise. It's just that slow burn, tho. As always I cannot thank you all for every click, comment and kudos. I flail every time. 
> 
> Of course, this would be nothing without Lauren, who is a God-send of word-reading fantastic'ness. Come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	29. Chapter 29

“I’m scared.”  
  
Killian’s head snapped down, entire body seizing up at the two words and the slightly terrified look on Roland’s face. He’d been shifting around for almost five minutes now, sliding across the bench and hitting up against Killian’s side with a regularity that almost made it feel like some kind of courtroom metronome. 

He tried to take a deep breath – to play  _ adult _ in this very adult situation – and found that he couldn’t quite get enough air into his body. It felt a bit like drowning, head spinning slightly and he tried to focus on Roland’s wide eyes as he looked up at him – certain Killian would have some kind of answer Robin and Regina didn’t. 

Killian pulled the boy closer towards him, effectively stopping the fidgeting completely when he squeezed Roland’s shoulder lightly. “Scared about what, mate?”  
  
Roland sighed dramatically, sounding a bit like the weight of the world was on his shoulders and Killian wondered if they’d all been too focused on everything else to realize just how much the seven-year-old picked up. Roland hauled his legs up on the bench – no doubt wrinkling the pants Killian was sure Regina had ironed earlier that morning – and spun slightly, kicking him in the thigh as he moved and staring up at him seriously. 

He bit back the groan just behind his lips when Roland’s foot collided with his leg, only wincing a bit, and did his best to look like an actual mature, responsible adult-figure. 

It had been a bit of an overwhelming day. 

Robin showed up early, banging on the door of his apartment with all the authority of someone who spent most of his time in the restaurant downstairs, Roland standing next to him when Killian finally swung open the door, matching looks of nervousness on their face. 

And he understood. He did. 

He hadn’t told Emma, but Killian had spent his own fair share of time in courtrooms and at conference tables with adults trying to decide his future. And if it had been overwhelming when he was thirteen, he could only imagine what it was like for a seven-year-old who only knew that Regina had always been there and would always be there and couldn’t understand why people were questioning that. 

So he did his best to play friend and uncle and support system in the cab ride farther downtown, resolutely trying not to mess with his tie. And it had been fine when they’d gotten out – Roland’s face a bit more settled – but then they’d walked up the steps of the building and Robin quietly grabbed Killian’s hand quickly, making him nearly trip over himself. 

“What?” he asked, narrowing his eyes and trying not to shiver when the wind whipped across them. 

“I have to ask you something,” Robin answered sharply, eyes narrowing quickly. 

“About?”   
  
“Today.”    
  
“I know what to say. That’s not something you have to worry about.”    
  
“No, no,” Robin mumbled, brushing him off as if he hadn’t even been concerned about that at all. “I mean something else. Something bigger.”    
  
“Bigger than character witnessing for you?”    
  
Robin nodded, a sharp, shaky movement that didn’t do anything to make Killian feel better about the way this day was going. “If this works and Gina can adopt him and everything is fine, then, uh, we’d be parenting together officially and, well, we talked about it a lot last night and we came to a decision.” Killian raised his eyebrows, waiting for Robin to continue and only glancing away when Roland yelled for them to  _ hurry up  _ from the top of the stairs. “Basically we decided we want you to be his guardian. Roland’s. You know, if something happens to us at some point.”

Killian wasn’t sure if he was still standing. 

There was a lot of ice underneath his feet. He probably had slipped and hit his head and this was some sort of weird, parallel universe where someone wanted him to take care of their kid in case of some life-altering emergency. 

He should say something,  _ of course. _  He should have said of course he would, but that would never happen and Robin and Regina had nothing to worry about and everything would be fine. He didn’t. 

He stood stock still halfway up the steps to the New York City family courthouse, staring at his friend and listening to his kid scream for them a few feet away. And Robin’s shoulders sagged a bit when he didn’t answer, turning on his heels and telling Roland to wait half a second before yanking open the door to the building and ushering his son inside. 

He was an idiot. 

“Is dad almost done?” Roland asked, unaware of the emotional breakdown Killian might have actually been having in the middle of this hallway.

He nodded quickly – another lie or adult mistake or a notch in the column of why he shouldn’t be someone’s emergency guardian – and tried to smile encouragingly at Roland. “He just had to talk to a couple of people.”  
  
“The same people you talked to?”  
  
“You’re a smart kid, you know that?” Roland grinned at him, pushing up on Killian’s shoulder so he was standing up on the bench. “You want to tell me what you were nervous about now or you want to keep acting like a monkey?”  
  
“Monkeys are pretty cool,” Roland said, tone as serious as the conversation undoubtedly happening on the other side of the door regarding his adoption and Killian’s character witness. 

“I’m not disputing the coolness of monkeys. I’m just saying you should probably sit down before you break something and Gina kills me.”   
  
“Nah, she likes you.”    
  
“She likes you more.”    
  
Roland’s grin got bigger and he laughed loudly, the sound of it echoing off the walls of the otherwise empty hallway and Killian was a complete asshole – because he shouldn’t want  _ this, _  even if it terrified him slightly. 

Emma hadn’t come out and asked and he hadn’t actually said it, but they were dancing around it during that conversation in hair and makeup the day before, talk of family and plans and a seemingly mutual want that had him thinking of things that shouldn’t even be crossing his mind. 

He should probably tell Emma he loved her before he professed some sort of deep-rooted desire to have a family. 

And then maybe he should relax. 

It had kept him up for most of the night – mind racing a mile a minute and images of that  _ future _ he suddenly wanted so badly his whole body seemed to ache with it. And it didn’t help that she wasn’t there, ushering Henry and the rest of her family out of The Jolly Roger at exactly 9:30. He’d tried to get her to stay longer – because he was apparently a  _ complete _ asshole – but she hadn’t budged, smiling at him and brushing her hair off her shoulders and kissing him lightly before telling him to call her after court. 

Killian was a lost cause, head over heels and a load of other metaphors and  clichés and he couldn’t sleep without his girlfriend anymore. 

What an asshole. 

He’d even woken up on his side of the bed, like he was trying to make sure she had space on top of a mattress three blocks away from hers. 

A melodramatic asshole. 

“Come on sit, down,” Killian said, tugging on Roland’s wrist and causing him to collapse on top of his body. He groaned at that, the wind knocked out of him slightly when the collective weight of a seven-year-old landed on his liver. “Talk. What are you scared of?”  
  
Roland’s entire face twisted and Killian felt like his whole body constricted at the look, trying to figure out a way to be  _ something _ better. “I heard Dad and Gina talking last night,” Roland said quickly, staring at Killian’s leg as he spoke. 

He tilted his head in surprise, the arm draped over the back of the bench moving back towards Roland’s shoulder. “Were you eavesdropping?” 

“What?”  
  
“Listening when you were supposed to be asleep.”

His face got red, eyes falling and Killian shouldn’t have smiled at the look on his face – an almost perfect imitation for the way Robin looked when he had too much to drink and Regina found out. “Maybe,” Roland mumbled, feet kicking out against the tiled floor. 

“You know you’re not supposed to do that.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“Why did you?”  
  
“I wanted to know what they were talking about. They’ve been talking a lot. About Gina getting to be my mom and you and Emma and the Jolly. And then last night they were talking about how you were going to be my dad.”  
  
He should work on reactions – on schooling his features and keeping the surprise off his face and he knew, by the look on Roland’s face, that he had failed on both accounts. “That’s not true,” Killian said quickly, eyes darting towards the room Robin had gone in nearly ten minutes before. 

“That’s what they said.”  
  
“I don’t think that’s true.”  
  
“I don’t think I’d want you to be my dad, Uncle Killian,” Roland said slowly and it sounded like he’d rehearsed this bit. 

“That’s not what’s going on.”  
  
“Is something happening to Dad and Gina?”

Killian took a deep breath, hand in his hair before he could stop himself and he absolutely had not gotten enough sleep for this kind of conversation. “No, mate, nothing is happening to them,” he said, staring intently at the slightly terrified kid next to him. “They’re just trying to be ready.”  
  
“For what?”

Robin needed to come back out here. Or maybe Regina should have shown up too. No, the adoption agent had told her she didn’t have to be here, probably shouldn’t be here so as not to draw focus on her relationship with Killian. 

And now he was on his own with a very curious seven-year-old who was fairly convinced his parents were facing some sort of imminent demise. 

He took another deep breath and squared his shoulders, tugging Roland back onto his legs. “You know how Gina’s trying to adopt you? She doesn’t want to be your mom, but she wants to be there for you, officially, you understand that?” Roland nodded and maybe this was going ok. “Alright, so, once Gina is officially part of your family she and your dad want to make sure that you’re taken care of no matter what.” 

Roland’s eyes narrowed slightly and Killian’s teeth tugged on the inside of his lip. “What’s going to happen to them?” 

“Nothing, mate,” he said, determined to make it sound like a promise. “Nothing, but they’re just being safe.” Roland didn’t look impressed with that and Killian shifted his leg, earning a yelp from the kid perched just a few inches away from his knee and turning his thigh to pins and needles. 

“Alright,” Killian continued, “think of it like a ship.”  
  
“A ship?”  
  
“Yuh huh, a big ship, right? One that’s got lots of officers and a ton of crew and all of that. Your dad is kind of like the captain.”  
  
“You’re the captain.”  
  
“Not in this story.” Roland let out a soft humph and Killian tried to keep track of the metaphor. “In this story, your dad is the captain and Gina is kind of like _his_ first mate and you’re the most important crew member. He wants to make sure you’re protected no matter what. So he’s made sure to find an ally.”  
  
He’d absolutely lost track of the metaphor. He was rambling now. This wasn’t going ok anymore. “Are you the ally?” Roland asked softly, kneeling Killian in the side as he shifted again. 

“Yeah, yeah, I am,” Killian said, not sure how this had actually worked. “So your dad has an ally to make sure that his most important crew member gets taken care of, even if something happens to him and his ship. Although it’s a big ship with lots of other crew and a pretty smart first mate, so that probably won’t happen. Got it?”  
  
“I think so.”  
  
“He’s just being safe. That’s what a good captain would do.”  
  
Roland nodded, not even turning around when the door behind him swung open and Robin walked back into the hallway, looking just as exhausted as Killian felt. “Uncle Killian can I ask a question?” 

Killian glanced up at Robin, hands in his pocket and a vaguely interested look on his face. “Yeah, of course, mate.”  
  
“Is Emma your first mate? You know like Gina is Dad’s?”

Robin sounded like he was choking on air, desperate not to laugh and Killian’s whole body suddenly felt like it was on pins and needles, not just the thigh that was holding a seven-year-old’s entire weight. 

And he didn’t really have an answer. 

At least not one that Roland would have understood. 

“No, she’s not,” Killian said and that shouldn’t have been quite as disappointing as it sounded. Maybe he was drowning a little bit. 

Roland looked disappointed. “She’d probably be a good one.”  
  
“Probably.”

“You should ask her.”  
  
“What?”

“Ask her if she’d want to. You know, like Dad and Gina and that way when I come to your ship, you’d have a crew too.”

The metaphor had taken on a life of its own at this point and it felt like it was criticizing Killian’s life a little bit – which seemed wholly unfair considering it was  _ his _ metaphor to begin with. Robin’s eyes hadn’t left Killian once, gaze practically searing the top of his head and he coughed loudly, finally drawing the attention of his kid. 

And, suddenly, Killian and his metaphor were old news, not nearly as exciting as the reappearance of Robin in the hallway. 

Good. 

That was good. 

He shouldn’t have been jealous. Or left wanting – first mate metaphors and images of the future and  _ Emma _ flitting in front of his eyes. 

“You ready to go, mate?” Robin asked, crouching down to come eye-to-eye with his son. 

Roland nodded enthusiastically, all fears apparently forgotten in one question. 

“How’d it go?” Killian asked, pushing off the bench and trying to shake some life back into his leg. Robin shook his head deftly – suddenly not wanting to talk in front of Roland and he’d  _ absolutely _ hear about the eavesdropping incident as soon as they got back to The Jolly. 

“Dad did you know you’re your  _ own _ captain?” Roland asked, tugging on Robin’s sleeve towards the ice-covered steps outside the courthouse. “Uncle Killian explained it all. And Gina’s your first mate and I’m the most important part of your crew.”  
  
“That so?” Robin muttered, glancing at Killian again, the threat of a smile on the corners of his mouth. 

“The story got away from me a bit,” Killian said, hailing a cab and ushering Roland into the backseat. 

That seemed to be a trend for the afternoon. 

* * *

Roland was on a metaphorical tear about metaphors and ships and first mates and Killian couldn’t understand why this cab ride was taking so long.

The drive back uptown seemed to take several years and Robin hadn’t said a single word, not a mention of what had actually gone on in that other room while Killian had lost track of stories and trying to keep a seven-year-old from thinking his parents were going to disappear and he’d have to serve as some sort of quasi-replacement dad. 

Jeez. 

He didn’t want to cook. 

He didn’t want to walk into the dining room as the cab pulled up in front of The Jolly. He didn’t want to look at orders or deal with over-enthusiastic customers or anything that didn’t inexplicably involve Emma Swan. 

He was clingy. 

A clingy asshole who had belly flopped into the land of adult responsibility that afternoon. And he couldn’t seem to stop coming up with metaphors. 

Robin swung the door of the cab open, tugging Roland out onto the sidewalk with him and Killian grudgingly followed, slamming The Jolly door behind him with much more force than actually necessary. 

“You alright, Cap?” Ariel asked and he glared at her, Roland sprinting across the still-empty dining room towards Regina at the end of the ball. “You look a little...stormy.”  
  
“It’s been a long day.”  
  
“How’d your statement go?”  
  
“Fine,” he said, eyes darting towards Robin as he pushed into the kitchen without a word, barely even glancing at Regina as he went. 

“What’s his deal?” Ariel pressed, nodding towards the hallway. Killian shrugged, tapping his heel loudly and Ariel crossed her arms tightly across her chest. “You learn that from Regina? You tap your foot when you’re angry.”  
  
“That’s never happened in my life.”  
  
“And you do that hair thing. But everyone knows that. Even Emma knew that and that was long before you and her were making out everywhere.”  
  
“No one is making out anywhere.”  
  
“You are. Everywhere. Including in front of the bar last night. You’ve stopped even pretending to care. I don’t mind, but you might want to consider your customers.”  
  
“I honestly couldn’t care less about the customers.”  
  
Ariel leaned against the side of the hostess stand, arms still crossed and a slightly curious expression on her face, green eyes flashing up towards him. “That’s never happened before.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“You always cared about the customers. And the food. What changed?”  
  
He should have said everything – should have told her how Emma had fell into the middle of everything and shifted it all off its axis. He didn’t have to. Ariel beamed at him, hand reaching out to wrap around his forearm and squeeze tightly. 

“I knew it,” she said, smile as bright as the lights overhead. 

“Knew what?”

“That she’d changed everything. Is that why you told Gold to suck it?”  
  
“Ari!”

“That’s what happened isn’t it?”  
  
“How’d you know about that?”  
  
“Gina told me a couple of days ago. And she’s not nearly as mad about it as you think she is, so you should probably stop worrying about that.” Killian gaped at her – wondering how so many people had managed to figure him out when he’d tried to so hard to ensure the opposite. “Have you told Emma yet?”  
  
Killian’s jaw ticked, the muscles in his neck straining a bit and Ariel sighed loudly, drawing a curious glance from Regina on the other side of the restaurant. “He didn’t tell her yet, did he?” she called and Killian could use the drink his producer was holding. 

“Of course not,” Ariel shouted back, rolling her eyes at Killian. 

“I am standing right here,” he mumbled. Regina and Ariel both shrugged. 

“Why didn’t you tell her?”  
  
“Probably because I didn’t tell her about Gold to begin with,” he grumbled, scuffing his feet and wrapping his hand around the back of his neck. 

“Killian!”  
  
“Don’t,” he said quickly, head snapping up to stare at her. “Don’t do that. I have heard it from Robin and Regina and even Belle yesterday. I know I should have told her, but it doesn’t matter anymore. She got her show back, I’m not going to win the thing and that’ll be fine.”  
  
“You think it’ll be that easy?”  
  
He didn’t, but he didn’t tell Ariel that. And he hadn’t told Robin or Regina or Belle either. Because, in addition to flashes of the future and an overwhelming sense of want the night before, he hadn’t been able to get Belle’s voice out of the back of his head – warnings about Gold and retribution and something that seemed vaguely nineteenth century. 

“I have no idea,” Killian admitted. 

“You should talk to her,” Ariel said. “Talk to Robin first, but then go talk to her.”  
  
Killian groaned – sounding more and more like Roland as the day went on – and he heard Regina laugh softly from her seat, glancing up with a knowing smirk at Will. And it seemed like everyone in this stupid restaurant was conspiring against him, bound and determined to make him happy or something equally ridiculous. 

“You might want to go upstairs sooner rather than later,” Regina muttered as he walked by, finger trailing around the rim of her martini glass.

“I’ve been instructed to go talk to your fianc é first.”   
  
“Well, yeah, do that,” she conceded, downing the rest of her drink in a single, very impressive, gulp. “But first tell me how today went.”    
  
“Robin didn’t tell you?”    
  
“The look on his face suggested it didn’t go particularly well.”    
  
“I have no idea how it went with him,” Killian said, resting his forearm against the bar and taking the glass of, presumably, rum Will handed him without a single word. “He was holed in up another room with the adoption agent and his lawyer for awhile after I gave my statement. Rol was convinced you two were dying.”    
  
“What?”    
  
“You should really check around corners from now on before you two start discussing vaguely overwhelming future-type things.”    
  
Regina’s eyes were as wide as her now-empty glass, tapping it sharply and hissing out a quick  _ Scarlet. _  The bartender glared at Killian as he took the glass, dumping in the martini he’d apparently already made. 

“What is everyone’s problem right now?” Killian asked, practically gulping down his own drink. The alcohol rushed through his body, making him shiver slightly and it felt like that same small little fire he felt whenever he was around Emma. 

Clingy asshole. 

“Did he ask you?” Regina asked, nodding once at Will when he handed her the refilled glass. 

“Did who ask me what?”  
  
“Don’t play stupid.”  
  
“I’m honestly not.”  
  
“If Roland was asking about us dying then he heard what we were talking about and Robin must have asked. He said he was going to before he left. What did you say?”  
  
Killian’s whole body deflated and he downed the rest of his drink quickly. “Nothing,” he whispered and shame wasn’t a feeling he particularly enjoyed. 

“Excuse me?”  
  
“He kind of caught me off guard.”  
  
“Are you serious, Killian?”  
  
“I wouldn’t lie about it.”

“You’re an idiot.”  
  
“A fact I have never once argued.”  
  
“No wonder he stormed in here like it was the goddamn end of the world,” Regina said, voice feeling like venom shooting through his veins. It made quite a pair with the shame he was currently doused in. “You need to fix this.”  
  
“I would if you’d stop yelling at me.”

“I’m not yelling.”  
  
“Arguing then.”

“I’ll accept that,” Regina said, narrowing her eyes slightly at him as she sipped the drink in her hand. “Go talk to Robin,” she muttered, voice dropping a bit and a nervous smile taking up residence on her face. It wasn’t a look Killian saw very often. “He probably thinks you don’t want to.”  
  
“That’s not true at all.”

“I know it and you know it and, I’m sure, Rol knows it, but you didn’t say anything. Go talk to him. Then go upstairs.”

Killian widened his eyes meaningfully at her – waiting for her to explain the reason he so desperately had to get upstairs. It never came. It also didn’t surprise him. 

He leaned over the top of the bar, grabbing the bottle of rum Will had left a few feet away, tucking it underneath his arm, and called towards him for another glass. “Don’t drink too much,” Regina mumbled and Killian just grunted in response. 

“You don’t want to have wander upstairs drunk out of your mind,” Will said, glancing at Regina with that same, knowing smile still plastered on his face. “That’s not very attractive.”

Something in the back of his mind sounded – some sort of alarm that seemed to be drowning out everything else, like he’d forgotten something important. 

He needed to drink some more. 

And stop coming up with metaphors. 

“What do you two know that I don’t?”  
  
“Killian,” Ariel said sharply, “Why aren’t you talking to Robin and apologizing? Or, more to the point, why aren’t you done with the apology and upstairs? Because you should really go upstairs.”  
  
“What kind of deal did you two stage so that you know absolutely everything that goes on in my restaurant?”

“Go,” Ariel said forcefully, practically pushing him down the hallway towards the kitchen. 

Killian pushed the door open – Robin leaning against the counter in the middle of the room, his phone in his hand and a very specific look on his face. He looked disappointed. And Killian felt a fresh wave of guilt, shame and, maybe, his own brand of disappointment wash over him as soon he took a step towards his friend. 

“Your fianc ée is mad at me,” he said, pulling the bottle of rum from underneath his arm and placing it lightly on the counter. Robin stared at him, eyes flashing up and he almost looked entertained. 

“Good,” he said, grabbing the bottle and eying the two glasses pinched in between Killian’s fingers. “You were an ass.”  
  
“You kind of caught me off guard.”

“Well we really only decided last night.”  
  
“And speaking of which, make sure you check dark corners for seven-year-olds eavesdropping on those decisions from now on.”  
  
“Roland heard?” Robin looked distraught – phone dinging loudly as it vibrated on the slightly cut-up surface of the counter.

“That’s what I was telling Regina before she banished me into the kitchen. Scared himself too. Told me he didn’t want me to be his new dad.”  
  
Robin groaned, rolling his eyes up towards the ceiling. “What a fucking mess,” he mumbled. “Is that what the boat metaphors were about?”  
  
“Catching me off guard seemed to be a bit of a trend today.”  
  
He flashed a smile Robin’s direction and the tension seemed to melt a bit in the middle of his kitchen. Killian nodded towards the glasses still in his hands and Robin hummed in approval of the alcohol. “I’m sorry,” he said, eyeing Killian over the top of his glass. “I shouldn’t have jumped you like that. I know it’s a lot to think about. I just, well _we_ want to make sure that Roland is taken care of if something happens, plus, you know, the law kind of requires us to do this. And we couldn’t think of anyone else.”  
  
“A rousing endorsement.”

“No, no, that’s not what I mean at all,” Robin argued, resting his glass on the top of his jeans. “The opposite in fact.” Killian lowered his eyebrows, pouring more rum in his now-empty glass. “You might not want to start drinking,” Robin said softly. 

“Why does everyone keep saying that?”

“You didn’t go upstairs?”  
  
“Did someone break into my apartment? What is going on?”

Robin eyed him cautiously – like he was in possession of some sort of major news that would change the course of Killian’s entire day – before taking another sip of his own drink and sighing dramatically, sounding just like his son did a few hours before. 

“Not in so many words,” he said, brushing by questions and suggestions that Regina and Ariel had made some kind of deal with an all-knowing restaurant devil. “Anyway, let me try and get this out right before you leave. Gina and I want you to be Rol’s guardian because we want someone to take care of him who would do it the same way we would. And you’d do that. You already take care of him like he’s half yours. You feed him like he’s all yours. And I know it was sudden and I know I sprung it on you unfairly, but that’s how it is. So, it’s up to you what you want to do, but it would mean a lot to us.”   
  
He didn’t need the alcohol for that rush of  _ emotion _ coursing through his system. 

Killian swallowed slowly, the sound of it echoing in his ears and Robin sat up a little straighter, glancing nervously at him out of the corner of his eye. “Well, that’s good,” Killian said slowly, trying not to let his voice shake. “Because Rol and I went through that whole boat metaphor with captains and first mates and it’d be kind of weird if I had to take that all back because you guys decided to go with some other, more responsible guardian.”

Robin’s whole body heaved with the effort of his sigh, hair falling across his forehead as he shook his head slowly. He downed the rest of his drink in one gulp. “It would have been easier if you’d started me on the boat metaphor first. Then I’d have been in a better mood all day.”  
  
“Next time you ask me life-changing questions, I’ll come up with a more prompt metaphor.”  
  
“I’d appreciate that.”

Killian took a deep breath – finishing off the rest of his drink, suggestions  _ not _ to drink be damned – and turned towards Robin, trying to will himself to actually talk about this with someone. “Like I said, you just kind of caught me off guard. And it might have come at an interesting time.”   
  
“What do you mean?”    
  
“I mean Emma and I had a walk-around conversation about family and wants and fairly uncharted emotional territory last night.” Robin’s eyebrows shot up so quickly, Killian was surprised there wasn’t smoke involved as well, staring at him like he’d never actually seen him before. “I mean, no one really used the word _ family,  _ not really and she’s got her own kid to worry about and it kind of came out of nowhere, but it happened and if I hadn’t been too busy trying to sleep last night, I probably would have made several dozen actually good cupcakes too. So, when you asked and then Roland tried to tell me I’d be his  _ dad, _  I kind of lost it. Or lost more of it.”  
  
He was rambling and his mouth was dry from the rum. 

And he was a clingy, asshole of a boyfriend who probably should have asked his girlfriend to come to dinner at his restaurant again. 

And to bring her kid. 

Robin grinned at him, pulling the rum bottle away – and that spoke as loudly as anything he could have actually said to him. “You should go upstairs.”

“Why is everyone so quick to get me to go upstairs?”  
  
“You should go upstairs,” Robin repeated, dragging out each syllable with the kind of dramatics he’d absolutely picked up from Regina. “Trust me on this.”  
  
Killian rolled his eyes – he could be dramatic too – but did as instructed, pushing himself off the counter and walking to the far corner of the kitchen, swinging open the door and all but sprinting up the back staircase. 

He could hear someone. 

And he wondered quickly what kind of robber would make so much noise while stealing things from his apartment and why everyone in his restaurant was determined to have him witness this break-in. 

Someone was kicking his oven. 

The sound was unmistakable.

Killian twisted the doorknob slowly in his hand, mind racing as he tried to stop himself from thinking about the one person who would know to kick his oven. 

She didn’t turn around when he walked in, didn’t even look up when he snapped the door back in his frame, just kicked the oven again and grumbled angrily at it and  _ fuck _ if he didn’t love her more than he realized was actually possible. 

“Fuck you, you stupid fucking thing,” Emma said, kicking at the appliance again. She turned around when she heard him laugh, leaning against the back of his door with his arms crossed and a smile on his face. “Your oven sucks,” she mumbled, stepping out of the kitchen and standing a few feet in front of him. 

And he couldn’t have stopped himself from touching her if he wanted to. 

He didn’t want to.

Killian clicked his tongue softly and somewhere along the line the smirk might have actually started working. Because Emma’s shoulders slumped a bit when his eyes met hers, smile tugging on the corners of her lips. 

She was wearing an apron from downstairs  _ The Jolly Roger _ emblazoned on the top corner, the strings tied tightly around her waist. And that one piece of hair that resolutely refused to stay in a ponytail when she pulled her hair up might actually kill him by the end of the night. 

“Such a mouth, Swan,” he said softly, hands settling on her hips. 

Emma rolled her eyes, flipping her ponytail off her shoulder. “And just think,” she said, laughing as she took a step forward, looping her index finger through the belt loop of his pants. That might kill him before the hair, particularly when she didn’t stop moving until she her entire body was pressed up against his. “You kiss that mouth. Regularly.”

“Was that an invitation, love?”  
  
She hummed in the back of her throat, narrowing her eyes and he probably should have come upstairs earlier. “A very strong suggestion.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. 

And he enjoyed the soft noise she made when he ducked his head, tongue dancing along her bottom lip. He would have been content to stand pressed against the front door to his apartment for the rest of time – or at least the rest of the night – provided Emma didn’t move an inch, particularly when her hand had wrapped itself around his tie, tugging slightly so he couldn’t move away from her. 

She moved before he did, laughing softly against his neck when he whined at her apparent need for oxygen. “The food is going to burn,” she said. 

“The oven doesn’t get hot enough for that.”

“You need a new oven.”   
  
“There are several downstairs.”    
  
“Yeah, but I was trying to do something  _ nice. _ ”

He leaned back as far as he could – door not giving much leeway behind him – and stared at her like he couldn’t quite believe she was there. And he couldn’t. If he was being honest with himself. “Are you cooking for me, Swan?”  
  
“I wouldn’t just come in here and start kicking your oven otherwise.”  
  
“How did you get in?” Her eyes flashed and she took a step back and he wondered what he’d said to make those walls inch up a bit higher. “What’s wrong?”

“I probably should have called,” she said softly, eyes falling towards her shoes. Or lack of shoes. God she’d taken her shoes off. Like she was comfortable in his apartment. His whole body flipped at the idea. “I just figured you’d been in court all day and I know how long those things can take and you probably hadn’t eaten. So I figured I’d, I don’t know, I’d do something here that wasn’t making you feed yourself.”

She shrugged, nerves etched into every corner of her face and he was stunned all over again. He should make a list of all the things he had to tell her or should tell her or wanted to tell her and then probably shout that he loved her an absolutely ridiculous amount and had no plans of walking away anytime soon. 

Killian reached his hand out slowly, pushing his fingers into her hair and Emma lifted her eyes, glancing up at him from underneath her lashes and the nervous smile was a bit more confident now. “You’re rambling, love,” he said, kissing the top of her forehead. 

“I do that when I’m nervous.”  
  
“You don’t have to call. For future reference or the next time you want to do something absurdly nice.”  
  
“It’s your apartment.”  
  
“And I’m consistently happy to see you in it, particularly today.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Killian confirmed, twisting his fingers through hers and pulling her back into the kitchen. “I’m not sure who you talked to on your way up here, but it’s been a kind of long day.”  
  
“I knew last night,” Emma said softly, a few inches behind him. And her hand tightened when she spoke. 

“How?” 

“Regina told me. Last night. You were talking to Henry and M’s and David had already left and she came up to me by the door and told me that they were thinking about it and that she was nervous you were going to freak out.”

Killian scoffed, lips pulled tight as he yanked open the oven door to find something that looked like chicken inside. “Chicken cacciatore,” Emma said softly, nodding at the food. “That’s like my most popular cookbook food.”  
  
“I absolutely freaked out,” he said quickly and he knew every single emotion he’d tried to work his way through during the course of the day was practically written on his face. Emma smiled softly at him, tugging on belt loops again until he took a step towards her, resting his forehead on her shoulder. 

“Why? It’s not like it’s actually going to happen.”  
  
“I know that,” Killian mumbled into her shirt. “But Rol was talking about replacement parents and getting adopted and he was scared and that got me kind of scared. And it all kind of snowballed in the hallway of the courthouse.”

She smiled at him and all he could see was green and yellow and The Jolly Roger emblem on the apron she was wearing. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said, trying to figure out a way to make sure Emma believed him. 

“I am too.”  
  
“Where’s Henry?”

Emma blinked at him twice, lips parting slightly and he could feel her stagger a deep breath. “Ruby’s,” she said. “Figured it was time to switch it up a little bit. And it doesn’t really seem fair to send him to David and M’s when she’s like seven months pregnant and he’s freaking out about his exam results. They should be coming soon.”  
  
“I thought your mom said that was a done deal.”  
  
“I’m sure it is, but David’s never quite as confident as Ruth.”

Killian nodded slowly, trying not to scream overwhelming emotional sentiments at the woman in front of him. “You know you can bring him here,” he said, kicking the oven behind him when it actually started to rattle. 

“Who? David? I don’t think he’d be into that.”  
  
“Henry. You can bring Henry here.” 

Her mouth dropped open even more and her eyes widened – like she couldn’t quite believe he wanted to make sure she didn’t have to ignore her son. “You’re serious?”  
  
“Why wouldn’t I be?”  
  
“That’s just...nice?”  
  
“Was that a question?”  
  
“It might have been.”  
  
“I’ll take the statement version of that question and reiterate that I like having Henry here. I like having both of you here.”  
  
And it felt like some sort of veiled _meaningful_ something.   
  
And Emma absolutely realized it. 

She nodded once, blinking again as she rocked back on her feet. “Although,” she said slowly. “There are some positives to being by ourselves.”  
  
“What exactly did you have in mind, Swan?”  
  
“I don’t want to scandalize you with my mouth again,” she muttered, voice shooting through him quickly, as effective as the bottle of rum he’d left downstairs. 

He bent down, kissing her quickly and tugging on her lip as he moved back. “I think I’m willing to chance it.”

Emma’s eyes flashed, twisting around him to flip off the oven before leading him back down the hallway – finger still looped through his belt buckle. 

They ate dinner downstairs. 

And at least six different people laughed when they walked out of the kitchen together. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some more emotion with your emotion. So I love Roland Locksley a lot and I just want everyone to take care of him. That's all. The angst is still lurking. It's there, I promise. In the meantime, I am always astounded by every click, comment and kudos. It honestly blows my mind. 
> 
> Lauren continues to be the greatest word-reading, mistake-fixing human being on the planet, so tell @laurenorder she's fantastic on Tumblr. 
> 
> And speaking of Tumblr, come flail with me about life if you're so inclined: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	30. Chapter 30

“This is the worst.”   
  
“It’s a party for you.”   
  
“That makes it the absolute worst.”   
  
Emma glanced at Mary Margaret, hands resting on her stomach and an impatient look on her face. The apartment was filled with people, all of them seemingly determined to put  _ their _ hands on her stomach and ask about color schemes for the nursery – drawing a scoff from Ruth every single time, no matter how far removed she was from the conversation – and at some point someone had tried to place a twisted hat of ribbons on Mary Margaret’s head and Emma was almost convinced her sister-in-law was going to murder them right there in her living room. 

She didn’t. 

But that may have been because both Emma and Ruby had intervened, ushering Ella and her three-year-old daughter to the other side of the room where the punch was. 

“We should have made this punch alcoholic,” Mary Margaret muttered, staring at the small cup in her hand. 

Emma gaped at her, twisting her body in the chair and trying to find Ruby across the throng of well-wishers who had stacked a small pile of presents at Mary Margaret's feet. “Mary Margaret,” she said sharply, not willing to admit that she absolutely agreed with her. 

This really was the worst. 

Mary Margaret hadn’t even really wanted a baby shower – telling both Emma and Ruby at least half a dozen times that she and David were more than capable of buying Leo his own belongings without the help of anyone, least of all the other teachers at school or wives of police officers she didn’t really even know. 

And then Ruth had showed up two days before with the idea for a baby shower and all-blue-everything and Emma and Ruby had been forced to go into party-planning mode, no matter what Mary Margaret grumbled. 

She was exhausted. 

And Ruby looked unfairly good for how exhausted she had to be as well. She had to be exhausted. They’d barely slept in the last two days – text messages from Ruth and Mary Margaret and David actually threatening to make their respective phones freeze at one point. Emma felt like she could actually  _ feel _ the bags under eyes and her hands were still cramping from holding a spatula for the better part of the morning, pulling mini-quiches off of cookie sheets in The Jolly kitchen. 

She didn’t have enough room in her own apartment to meet quota. 

That might have been why she was so tired too – Killian Jones was nothing if not incredibly good at providing a distraction while mini-quiches cooked in all five of his restaurant’s ovens and they’d managed to tick off  _ that  _ box fairly effectively. 

Mary Margaret grumbled again, making a face Emma hadn’t seen since she was sixteen and David had said something stupid about wanting to move to New York and be a police officer and she’d had to play mediator in the middle of Main Street. 

“Just think of this like charity,” Emma said, glancing at the mountain of baby-goods wrapped in an assortment of sickeningly adorable paper. “You sit here and let people crowd your personal space for a couple of hours, you make Ruth happy and you get gifts out of it. It’s not a bad deal when you think about it.”  
  
“You complaining again?” Ruby asked, appearing out of seemingly nowhere to rest her elbow on the back of Mary Margaret’s chair. She grinned knowingly at her, a teasing glint in her eye that Emma immediately recognized as amusement – and a plan. 

And that worried her a bit. 

“I’m not complaining,” Mary Margaret said, sitting up a bit straighter and glaring at Ruby. “I’m just curious when I lost all ability to make decisions on my own. We don’t need these presents or the punch or, God, what is this?” 

She yanked a small knot of ribbons out of the back of her hair where it had been, unknowingly, stuck for the last twenty minutes. Emma hadn’t had the heart to tell her. She was an awful friend. And she was so tired she couldn’t see straight.    
  
Ruby pointed at Mary Margaret’s stomach, grin creeping across her face. “That’s why.”   
  
“That’s stupid.”   
  
“You’re just the mom,” Ruby laughed. “Ruth’s the grandmother. Plus you’re getting, like, a ridiculous amount of stuff for free.”   
  
“These are all things I’ve already pointed out,” Emma said softly, earning her own glare from Mary Margaret. She rolled her eyes at the expression – if they were going to act like teenagers, she could meet Mary Margaret look for look. And early-morning makeouts with her boyfriend, but that was beside the point. 

“You’re right,” Mary Margaret sighed. Ruby and Emma’s eyebrows jumped in tandem, quick glances exchanged and Mary Margaret’s whole body sagged forward a bit, like she’d been holding her breath for the better part of the afternoon. “I know I’m being stupid. It’s not just about the party. Although, I totally didn’t want the party and it is super weird how we as a society have decided it’s ok to feel a woman’s stomach because there’s another  _ human _ in there and…”   
  
“Focus, M’s.”

Mary Margaret took a deep breath and nodded once, pushing her hips up slightly to grab something out of her back pocket. Emma opened her mouth, something about  _ straining herself _ on the tip of her tongue and Mary Margaret glared at her. “I swear to God, Emma Swan, if you say anything about being careful, I will rage right in the middle of this apartment.”

Emma’s eyes widened to potentially dangerous proportions and Ruby’s elbow slid off the chair quickly, her entire body folding into itself with laughter. “Talk about hormones,” she muttered, hooking her foot around an empty folding chair and all but collapsing into it.

“Jeez, Mary Margaret,” Emma said softly. 

“Sorry, sorry,” she mumbled, unfolding what appeared to be an envelope and handing it to Emma. 

“What’s this?”   
  
“Look at it, but, you know don’t open it?”   
  
Emma glanced questioningly at her, but Mary Margaret just nodded, teeth pressed into her lower lip tightly. It was an envelope and it looked like it had taken up residence in Mary Margaret’s back pocket, folded, at least, two dozen different ways like she kept taking it out to stare at it. 

And it was from the city of New York. 

More to the point, it was from One Police Plaza in the city of New York. 

“Oh my God,” Emma mumbled, eyes flashing up towards Mary Margaret who looked nothing short of absolutely ashamed. Her whole lip was twisted in between her teeth and she was beating out a nervous rhythm on her side. 

“I know, I know. I’m the worst wife in the whole world.”   
  
“What is it?” Ruby asked, leaning forward and pulling the envelope out of Emma’s hand. Her whole face went slack when she looked at the return address. “Holy shit, Mary Margaret.”   
  
“Ruby!”   
  
“What? There’s not actually a baby here yet. And this is a huge deal.”   
  
“It is,” Mary Margaret admitted. “It’s the biggest deal. That’s why I’ve been so frustratingly annoying about this party thing. I couldn’t deal with the idea of people doing stuff for me when I was hiding this.”   
  
“You’re hiding it?” Emma repeated and Ruby was laughing again. 

Mary Margaret nodded slowly, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. Hormones. “For the last four days.”   
  
“Oh my God.”   
  
“Stop saying that.”   
  
“I don’t know what else to say.”   
  
“Are you going to tell David?”   
  
“No,” Emma said quickly, not even considering another option. “That’s all you, M’s.” Mary Margaret groaned, drawing a few curious glances from people who desperately wanted to play baby shower games, and she squeezed her eyes shut tightly. 

“We definitely should have made this punch alcoholic,” Ruby said, downing the rest of her drink like she was doing shots. 

“How did this happen?” Emma asked, ignoring the requests for alcohol she was practically drowning in. “I mean you knew he took the test. You knew the test would have results. This could be a good thing.”   
  
“You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know,” Mary Margaret said and her fingers hadn’t stopped moving in the last three minutes. “And I want David to be happy and no one deserves to be an officer more than him. I  _ know _ that.”   
  
“But?”   
  
“But that is absolutely terrifying.”   
  
“It’s not going to change the results of that exam.”   
  
“I just thought maybe if he didn’t know for a couple of extra days, we could just have this.” She glanced around the apartment at the group of people she’d put up such a fight over a few hours before, shrugging at Emma and Ruby. “We could just be soon-to-be parents and he wouldn’t feel like he was some sort of leader or under all this stress. That’s why he didn’t tell me he was going to take the exam in the first place.”   
  
“I know that,” Emma said before entirely considering what she was saying. 

“What?”   
  
She ran her hand over face, slouching forward until her elbows rested on her knees. “He showed up at my apartment months ago, certain I was dead because I didn’t answer my phone. It was very typical David. And he told me.”   
  
“He always thinks he’s got to try and protect me.”   
  
“He’s worried about you.”   
  
“That’s dumb.”   
  
“So is hiding his test results.”   
Ruby chuckled, smiling at Emma. “I think she just won, Mary Margaret. Who knew making out with Killian Jones would make you so smart?”   
  
“Yeah, let’s focus on that,” Mary Margaret said, envelope and test results and baby shower games seemingly forgotten in her determination to hear about Emma’s relationship. “You two are pretty handsy, you know.”   
  
“Handsy?” Emma scoffed. “What is this? Middle school?”   
  
“High school. At least.”   
  
Emma rolled her eyes, ignoring the way her stomach flipped at the thought of  _ handsy _ and a handful of other adjectives and memories of the last few weeks flashing through her mind. 

“You are actually blushing,” Ruby said, sounding just a bit stunned. “I had no idea you were capable.”   
“Shut up,” Emma hissed. Mary Margaret was sniffling again and this conversation had gotten totally off track. 

“Come on, spill. What happened last week?”   
  
“What happened last week? Things happened last week?” Mary Margaret’s eyes flashed between Emma and Ruby, acting like she was waiting on some sort of  _ New York Times _ breaking news headline.  

“How did we land on this topic?” Emma sighed, twisting the end of her hair around her finger and two incredibly accusatory gasps met the movement. Goddamnit. “This is  _ your _ baby shower, M’s.”   
  
“Yeah, but I didn’t really want it.”   
  
“Because you were too busy feeling guilty about lying to your husband.”   
  
“What happened last week?”

“Emma broke into Killian’s apartment and cooked him dinner,” Ruby answered and Mary Margaret’s entire mouth was hanging open. “Told him she wanted to do something  _ nice _ because he spent the whole day in court character witnessing for Regina.”   
  
“Wait, wait, back up,” Mary Margaret said, not even looking at Emma anymore. “She broke into his apartment?” Ruby nodded. “And what’s a character witness?”   
  
“He’s trying to help prove Regina should be able to adopt Roland when she marries Robin.”   
  
Mary Margaret actually said  _ awww _ and Emma needed to seize back control of this conversation. “Hi,” she said, bitterness creeping into the corners of her voice. Two pairs of slightly amused eyes answered her. “I’m still here. Any chance you guys want to include me in this conversation about me?”   
  
Ruby shrugged, but Mary Margaret at least had the common decency to look a little bit embarrassed. “And anyway,” Emma continued, digging herself a bit deeper into this conversation-hole. “I didn’t break into his apartment. Ariel let me in.”   
  
“His hostess?”   
  
Emma mumbled some kind of agreement in the back of her throat and Mary Margaret stared at her with a bit of wonder on her face. “What?”

“I’ve just never seen you so happy.”  
  
“Oh, don’t get all sappy on me, M’s.”   
  
“I’m not, really. Ask Ruby. She’ll say the same the thing.”   
  
“It’s true, Em,” Ruby said, staring at her seriously a force field of brown eyes and determination. “You’re...I don’t even know. If I could come up with a better word than happy, I would. But that’s the jist of it. You’re so happy and no one deserves to be happy more than you.”   
  
“You’re both saps,” Emma mumbled, staring at her shoes so she didn’t do something ridiculous like start to cry in the middle of Mary Margaret’s living room. 

They both shook their heads at her and Emma tried to keep her breathing level, stomach clenching a bit because she was just as happy as they were telling her she was. Probably more. And she believed in Killian – trusted him implicitly and wanted him even more – but she was still Emma and Emma never quite knew what to do when things were going well. 

This was going well. 

And she was terrified of it falling apart. 

She was terrified of losing him. 

“It’s still early,” she muttered, half to herself, a quiet mantra she’d taken up since he’d lost on purpose for  _ her _ , determined to keep her expectations as low as possible.

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Ruby said sharply and Ruth scoffed from a few feet away, like there was a baby in the living room who would also be scandalized by swear words and inappropriate behavior. 

“It is,” Emma argued. “It’s only been a couple of months. I’ve only known him for a couple of months! I shouldn’t be…”

She cut herself off, eyes falling back to the floor – mostly so she didn’t have to look at the smug smiles on both Mary Margaret and Ruby’s face. 

“You’ve used that excuse before,” Ruby said. 

“That doesn’t make it any less true.”   
  
“Emma,” Mary Margaret said quietly and she couldn’t have looked away if she tried. “Have you told him about Neal?”   
  
Ruby let out a low whistle and Emma’s entire body shivered like someone had just opened every window in the apartment. She shook her head forcefully, hair whipping across her face almost painfully. “No,” she said, the certainty in her voice drowning out any potential for follow-up questions. “And I’m not going to.”   
  
Mary Margaret opened her mouth – that follow-up practically hanging on the tip of her tongue – but Emma narrowed her eyes and her sister-in-law’s jaw snapped shut audibly. “I don’t want him to know.”

And those two pairs of very judgemental eyes softened just a bit, picking up on what Emma hadn’t actually said. She didn’t want him to, somehow, think less of her. She didn’t want him to know that she’d found out she was pregnant in jail or considered giving Henry up for adoption or had a record that Ruby had done just about everything in her power to keep under lock and key when the show got successful. 

Because if he knew he might look at her differently. 

And that thought alone made every single part of her body twist uncomfortably. 

What a mess. 

“He wouldn’t think that,” Ruby said softly, hand reaching out to rest on Emma’s knee, and Mary Margaret nodded enthusiastically. 

“You don’t know that.”  
  
“I absolutely do.”   
  
“Emma,” Mary Margaret cut in, the look on her face nearly making Emma start to cry again. “It’s not too soon. And it’s not too scary. The way he looks at you...like you are  _ everything  _ to him. I think he loves you just as much as you love him.”   
  
And she couldn’t argue, couldn’t come up with a single word or a single letter, just blinked quickly to try and push the tears back into her eyes and focused on the rush that shot through her whole body at the idea. 

“There’s no such thing as too soon,” Mary Margaret continued, sunshine and optimism packed into a human body ready and willing to support Emma no matter what. “It just is. You don’t have to question it. You just have to act. And I think you should tell him.”

“Dor and I knew in less than a week,” Ruby added. “Honestly. I saw her and the metaphorical chorus in my mind started to play and I told her I loved her seven days later. No joke.”   
  
Emma’s laugh was shaky at best, but she couldn’t help but smile at the two friends in front of her. And wonder when she’d gotten so lucky. 

Everything was too good. 

“You have a metaphorical chorus in your mind?” she asked, glancing at Ruby who simply nodded like it was completely normal. 

A pair of footsteps came up towards them and Emma looked up to find Ruth staring at them expectantly. “Mary Margaret,” she said. “You want to start opening presents? It might keep things from getting a little dull in here.”   
  
Emma pulled her lips behind her teeth – determined not to actually laugh for fear of what both Ruth and Mary Margaret would do to her – and Mary Margaret just nodded quickly, fingers still tapping out that rhythm on her stomach. 

“Sure,” she said and Emma wondered if anyone heard the tension in her voice besides her. “That sounds really good.”

Ruth beamed at her, turning back to the small crowd to get them to transition a few feet to their collective left and Mary Margaret squeezed her eyes shut tightly. “Free stuff, M’s, just remember, free stuff,” Emma said, yanking her chair around so she was sitting next to her. 

“They’ll be gone in an hour,” Ruby said. 

And that wasn’t part of the plan. 

“What?” Mary Margaret asked, leaning to the side to grab something wrapped in rubber duck-themed paper. 

Ruby’s face shifted – falling back into cutthroat producer with a practiced ease that probably should have intimidated Emma a bit, but just served to impress her. “That was why I came over here in the first place,” she said, crossing her legs and hooking her heel behind her ankle. “Strangely enough, it was freezing cold at the Piers and apparently Henry wasn’t quite as interested in soccer anymore. So they’re at The Jolly now, something about root beer floats and baked goods and they’ll be back here in an hour. I think David’s kind of anxious to get back to you, Mary Margaret. It’s disgusting.”

“Disgusting,” Mary Margaret repeated, sounding like it was anything but. 

“How’d you know all that?” Emma asked, wondering why she hadn’t gotten some sort of text-message update. 

“You got it too,” Ruby said, nodding towards the phone sitting on an end table a few feet away. 

Emma reached back, grabbing the thing and swiping her thumb across the screen. Twelve text messages. Eight from Henry – including a photo of David trying to go up against an automated goalie machine that she’d probably save for the rest of her life – three from David and one from Killian. 

_ We might have to crash your shower, love. Soccer in the snow isn’t quite as fun as I was promised it would be. _

**That’s alright. I think you’re probably doing M’s a favor. And I might want to see you.**

It took a full ten seconds for her phone to buzz again, earning a sarcastic glance from Ruby as several dozen acquaintances moved towards Mary Margaret, hands reaching out to touch her stomach and push presents towards her. 

_ That so? Can’t get enough of me, huh?  
_ _  
_ **Something like that.**

_ Good.  _

* * *

The door swung open right on schedule an hour later, Henry sprinting into the living room with what looked like several inches of snow in his hair and at least half a dozen stories about David’s inability to play soccer on his lips.

Ruth was only slightly put out about the early-end to the party, Mary Margaret’s admission to being  _ absolutely exhausted _ enough to make her mother-in-law usher everyone out the door ten minutes before. She looked a bit amused when David made a beeline to his wife – no complaints about  _ his _ hand falling on her stomach without a word – and glanced at Emma knowingly, mouth ticking up a bit. 

Emma shrugged. 

“Relax, kid,” Emma laughed when Henry collapsed on the couch next to her, elbows just missing Ruby as he landed loudly. “We don’t need a full report right now.”  
  
“But mom,” he whined. “It was so funny. Uncle David actually fell over. He fell over!”   
  
“Yeah, I got the pictures you sent me.”   
  
“There are pictures?” David asked sharply, head snapping up from where it had been resting against Mary Margaret’s shoulders. “Jeez, delete those, Em.”   
  
“Nuh uh, I’m keeping those until the end of time. Now I’ve got some serious blackmail when you’re being a jerk.”   
  
“I wasn’t a jerk all day. Ask Killian.”   
  
He was leaning against the entryway to the living room, feet crossed at the ankles and his gaze only focused on Emma. He had snow in his hair too and the blue in his eyes looked  _ bluer _ when they met hers, smile tugging on his mouth in a way that made her want to kiss him – hard. And for a prolonged period of time. 

“I can confirm that your brother was not a jerk, Swan,” Killian said, stepping farther into the room and nodding towards a still-lying-across-the-entire-couch Henry. He sank onto the arm next to her, fingers brushing across the back of her neck and leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake. “We had fun. Despite the potential concussion.”   
  
“You’re not really concussed are you, Uncle David?” Henry asked, sitting up quickly and Emma’s heart thumped in her chest at the concern in his voice. 

“Nah, I’m fine,” David promised and Henry let out a relieved deep breath. “Although,” he continued slowly, glancing at Killian quickly. “Maybe not quite  _ good. _ ”  
  
Killian nodded again, stepping towards Emma, and it seemed like the entire room had frozen. “What’s going on?” Mary Margaret asked. 

David pulled the air into his lungs slowly, hands pushed into his pockets as he started to pace in front of them, eyes focused on the carpet underneath his feet and the small trail of New York City slush he was leaving behind him. “I got some news a couple of days ago,” he said softly and it took half a second for Emma to realize what was going on.

“Oh my God,” she groaned. “You’re both idiots.” David glanced questioningly at her and she ran her hand through the air, shaking her head. “Go ahead, say what you’ve got to say.”   
  
He took another deep breath and Killian’s fingers hadn’t stopped moving across the back of her spine, tracing some sort of pattern against her skin. Mary Margaret crossed her arms slowly, waiting patiently for the news Emma was positive she’d already figured out anyway. 

“I passed,” David said, rushing over the words and ignoring his mother’s loud gasp. “Captain told me a couple of days ago. I passed and there’s a ceremony next month and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I was nervous how you’d react and I just want you to be happy. Nothing’s going to happen to me. Not when I’ve got so much to come home to.”   
  
His hand fell back to Mary Margaret’s stomach, palm resting flat against her shirt and her fingers tugged on his forcefully until they were twisted together. 

And if Emma leaned back against her own boyfriend’s hand, his fingers coming down to rest on her shoulder and his lips brushing against her head, she couldn’t really blame herself.  

Mary Margaret closed her eyes lightly, smiling just a bit and David looked concerned she was having some sort of reaction. “Mary Margaret?” he asked, kneeling so he was eye level with her again. And his hand didn’t move out of hers. 

“Emma was right,” she muttered. 

“What?”  
  
“We’re both idiots.” She nodded towards the envelope Ruby had left sitting on the coffee table, flattened out for what was, likely, the first time since Mary Margaret had taken it out of the mail. “That came four days ago.”   
  
“Is this…” David asked slowly, leaning precariously back on his heels to grab the thin piece of paper, eyes lightening a bit when he noticed all the crease marks on it. 

“I couldn’t bring myself to actually open it. I didn’t have to. I knew you’d pass. And I know I should have told you it came. But I was nervous and scared you’d do something absurdly heroic because of new bars on your uniform.”  
  
“I won’t.”   
  
“You will,” Mary Margaret said, but she was smiling as she spoke. “And that’s why I love you. You’d do whatever you could to protect anyone. You’re good, David Nolan. The good-est and that’s not even a word and I know it’s not a word and, well, I am so proud of you. I should have told you that from the start.”

David’s eyes widened a bit and Mary Margaret tried to keep her smile on her face and then they were kissing each other, fingers still wrapped together and Ruby groaned loudly. “Disgusting,” she mumbled, glancing at Henry who appeared to agree with the sentiment. 

Ruth yelped loudly again, rushing towards her son and his wife and wrapping them tightly in another hug that was so tight Emma was positive David would chastise her for possibly  _ hurting the baby. _

“Swan,” Killian muttered in her ear, making her jump a bit. “Can I talk to you for a second?”   
  
Emma twisted her head to look up at him, the nerves practically radiating off him and her stomach felt like it dropped a few feet as she nodded slowly. “Sure.”

She stood up, pulling Henry’s legs off hers as she moved, and started walking towards the kitchen when she nearly fell over – Killian’s hand wrapped around her wrist and making her almost lose her balance when she came up short of linoleum. 

“I was thinking maybe outside,” he said softly, redirecting her towards the door. 

“Ok.”

They took a few steps into the hallway, the sound of the door slamming shut echoing behind him and Killian rolled his shoulders, thumb tapping on the side of his prosthetic. “You alright?” Emma asked. He nodded tersely and that didn’t do anything to make her feel like she wasn’t being lied to. “You look a little terrified.”  
  
He laughed at that, shoulders loosening a bit as he reached out towards her again. She moved without question, mind holding onto  _ too soon _ despite romantic proclamations from Mary Margaret an hour before. “Not terrified,” Killian said softly. “A bit nervous, but not terrified.”   
  
“What’s going on?”   
  
“You know we haven’t actually been on another date since the network party.”   
  
And that’s not what she expected at all. 

Emma’s eyes narrowed, head pulling back to stare at him and he was actually smiling now. “What are you getting at?”   
  
“I’m suggesting that maybe we should.”   
  
“And you had to bring me into the hallway to ask me that?”   
  
“You know Gina and Robin are getting married next month.”   
  
“Yeah,” Emma nodded. “I’ve seen the scrapbook.”   
  
He took a deep breath, eyes meeting hers without a trace of the previous nerves or misgivings and Emma couldn’t even remember what  _ too soon  _ was when he was looking at her like that. “Would you like to go with me?” Killian asked. 

She nodded before she’d even really processed the question, head moving quickly as her heartbeat tried to keep up with the rhythm it was pounding out. His mouth met hers without another word, hands pushing underneath the bottom of her shirt until the fabric had ridden up her stomach and Emma barely remembered that her entire family was a few feet away behind one closed door. 

She almost didn’t care. 

She was ridiculously happy.

“I’ll have to buy a dress,” Emma mumbled and she could feel his smile when he laughed against her lips. 

“You don’t have to,” Killian argued. “Wear whatever you want. Wear jeans for all I care. It’ll still look incredible.”   
  
“What a line.”   
  
“The truth.”

Emma shook her head, fingers still pushed into his hair as she pulled him back towards her – mostly so she could keep trying to ignore the way her stomach was flipping at the thought that it  _ was _ the truth. 

“Swan, your whole family is in that apartment,” Killian mumbled, a picture of responsibility despite the several different directions his hair was currently pushed in. 

“Did you forget?”   
  
“No,” Killian said. “But in the grand scheme of trying to make a good impression, I’m not sure this is exactly helping my cause.”

Emma groaned, taking a much-needed step back and he pushed his hands in his pockets – like that was the only way to keep from touching her. “I’ve been meaning to ask you for awhile, you know,” he said. 

“What?”   
  
“Or I’ve wanted to.”   
  
“Why didn’t you?”   
  
“We said we wouldn’t push, Swan. And bringing you to my producer’s wedding as a plus-one when you’ll likely have to sit by yourself during the ceremony seemed a bit like pushing.”   
  
She took a step back towards him, hand tugging on the unzipped zipper of his jacket until he didn’t have anywhere to look but her. “If I get to push you for information, you can push me for dates,” Emma said, trying to keep her voice steady. “Plus, I might have hoped you’d ask.”   
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“Well I can’t do all the asking out,” Emma laughed. “And I’m assuming Regina will have you decked out in some sort of incredibly fancy outfit. So I will admit that’s the main draw. Are you going to have to wear a waistcoat too?”   
  
Killian laughed, lips brushing across her forehead and his hand fell back to her waist and they were absolutely teenagers. “Ah, it’s my turn then, is it?”   
  
“Something like that.”

He nodded seriously and Emma wasn’t sure if she’d actually fallen into the floor or melted into it, but she was surprised she was still standing up. His didn’t blink, staring her like she was more than just someone he’d met a few months ago and more than someone who couldn’t seem to stop kissing. 

He looked at her like she was everything. 

And for the first time, she felt like it. 

“I love you,” Emma said, words falling out of her without a second thought. His whole body tensed against her, eyes widening for a fraction of a moment and his teeth pushed into his lip tightly, like he couldn’t quite believe she was standing in front of him. 

“Swan,” he said slowly, fingers tracing across her jaw. And  _ fuck _ his eyes were blue. 

“You don’t have to say anything,” Emma said quickly, trying to not to fall into herself or the floor, certain both were places she wasn’t particularly interested in being.  _ Too soon. _  Fuck. It was too soon. “I just wanted you to know. You should know. And you’ve been so good and, well, it’s the truth. You should know the truth, right?”   
  
He stared at her for a few more moments, mouth ticking up slowly before he crashed against her, lips moving demandingly over hers and his hand pushing its way up her stomach like  _ he’d _ forgotten about the family members a few feet away. 

Emma groaned when Killian’s hips canted upwards, pushing into her and leaving very little doubt to just how much he wanted her. “My turn, right?” he asked, mumbling the words against her lips and the breathless sound of his voice wasn’t fair at all. He pulled her hands towards him, resting her knuckles against the buttons of his shirt and when Emma finally got the courage to pull her eyes up to his she nearly fell over. 

_ Like she was the goddamn sun. _

“I love you too,” he said and his voice seemed to fill that tiny, metaphorical pit in her stomach that she’d never been able to actually put a name to. 

And then he was kissing her again – softer this time, slower, like he was trying to memorize the way she moved and the way she felt against him and she might have been doing the exact same thing, fingers ghosting over his left wrist until they wrapped themselves around his prosthetic and pulled him flush against her. 

He pressed her further against the wall, somehow finding an inch of space Emma’s body wasn’t already occupying, and she wasn’t entirely certain he knew what he was doing anymore, the determination to seemingly try and touch every single part of her taking control. 

They really should pick better locations for these kind of conversations – hallways and hair and makeup and deserted sets seemed like the last places these things should happen at. So, of course it was like this. 

Nothing had gone the way she’d expected when it came to Killian Jones. 

Killian’s arm had found its way around her waist, tugging her up until her heels actually popped out of her shoes, using the wall as leverage until her calves were wrapped around his thighs and he groaned when she pushed her hips into his. 

Emma laughed softly, head falling forward until her forehead rested on his and she could feel him smile against her. “Are you laughing at me, Swan?” he asked, laughter creeping into  _ his _ voice. 

“No,” she said honestly and Killian’s eyes snapped up to hers – blue and serious and  _ God _ he loved her back. “I’m just happy.”

His smile could have stopped traffic in the middle of Times Square. Or Columbus Circle. Or probably lit the flame in the Statue of Liberty. 

She was, apparently, chock full of ridiculous sentiment. 

“Good,” Killian said softly and Emma was still an inch off the ground, his arm wrapped tightly around her and supporting her weight entirely. There was some sort of deeper meaning there – she wouldn’t have minded trying to find it by kissing him some more. “And you really don’t have to buy a new dress.”  
  
“You’re still thinking about the dress?”   
  
“I’m thinking about you  _ in  _ a dress, love. They’re decidedly different things.”   
  
Emma laughed again, the muscles in her face threatening to tighten from overuse. “And possibly out of a dress,” she mumbled, eyes flashing towards Killian’s in just enough time to see his mouth drop open. 

“It’s rude to tease a man like that,” he said, voice low as he muttered the words into her ear, nosing her hair out of the way. She shivered when his lips hit the back of her neck, certain the goosebumps would have given her away even if she hadn’t moved. He laughed at that – drawing out even more goosebumps when his breath hit just behind her ears, making Emma bite her lip tightly and press her toes into her shoes so she wouldn’t start kissing him again. 

“It’s not teasing if it’s a promise.”   
  
Killian’s eyebrows nearly flew up his forehead, smile inching across his face as he pulled back slightly, staring at her with some akin to wonder in his expression. “That so?”

“You going to kick me out after date number, what would we call this? Four?”

“I have no intention of kicking you out, ever, so, no, not after date four either.”   
  
She was absurdly happy. 

And the sky hadn’t fallen. And the building hadn’t caved in. And he hadn’t walked away. 

He was still there, fingers tracing some sort of pattern across her hip and a smile plastered on his face and Killian loved her back. 

“Ever?” Emma said softly and his eyes narrowed at the repeated word, shoulders shifting slightly with the weight of four letters. 

“Does that count as pushing?” Killian asked. 

Emma shook her head slowly – not entirely certain what she was disagreeing to. “I don’t think so.”   
  
“Overwhelming?”   
  
“That might be closer to the word I was looking for.”   
  
He sighed softly, one side of his mouth pulled up and nodded at her. “A good word.”   
  
“Some might even say that this is vaguely important.”   
  
“The most.”   
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“Yeah.” And  _ those _ four letters seemed to settle the batch of nerves Emma couldn’t quite seem to shake. “I love you, Emma. More than I thought I could and certainly faster than I thought was possible. And it’s overwhelming and important and I wouldn’t want it to be any different, because you’re overwhelming and important. The most of both.”   
  
She was crying. 

She could feel the tears falling down her cheek, salt hitting the side of her lip when Killian didn’t move his thumb fast enough to brush them away. “Swan?” he asked, voice low with concern and that might have made her cry more. 

“I’m fine,” Emma said quickly, blinking and shaking her head. “I just...I’m happy.”

Killian nodded, thumb brushing across her cheek and Emma’s whole body clenched at the way his eyes seemed to actually lighten when she spoke. 

Happy. 

She was so goddamn happy she felt like her entire body was buzzing with emotion. 

It might have been. 

“Hey,” Emma said suddenly, like she was remembering a very important point she’d entirely forgotten. She had – far too preoccupied with declarations of  _ I love you _ and kissing and allusions to dresses on and off her body. “What was with those looks before?”   
  
“What looks? The ones directed at you? I think we’ve made that fairly clear, don’t you, love?”   
  
Emma shook her head, willing herself not to get distracted again by that absolutely ridiculous combination of smirk and blue eyes. “No, no, that’s not what I meant.” He’d added one absurdly arched eyebrow to the mix and that wasn’t playing fair at all. “Before David told M’s about the results and things got all mushy in there, he looked at you. And you nodded. And it was encouraging. That’s the look I’m curious about.”   
  
“Mushy?” he repeated and now both eyebrows were up and his eyes were blue and she was absolutely distracted. Killian’s hand reached out, fingers brushing along the curve of her jaw, sending a wave of goosebumps down her spine. 

“You know what I mean,” Emma muttered, doing her best to resist the urge to shrug his fingers away and tell him to replace them with his mouth. On her lips. Again. “Did David tell you about the results?”

He sighed softly – and moved his hand away, running it across his face and that wasn’t really what she had in mind at all – taking a step back and his expression changed just a bit. It had been serious the whole time – no one tells someone they love them without being, at least, a little serious – but his eyes seemed to darken just a bit when he looked at her again, nodding slowly, lips pressed together tightly. 

“We talked,” Killian said, like that was, somehow, normal. 

“When?”   
  
“Today.”   
  
“And?”   
  
“And what?”   
  
“And David wouldn’t just tell you about the results as some kind of conversation starter,” Emma argued. “So that means there had to have been more talking. When? And for how long?”   
  
“Those are a lot of questions, Swan.”   
  
“Ones you’re doing a very good job of avoiding.”   
  
He sighed again, but there was a bit of laughter mixed in to and he smiled at her when he looked at her. “You know about Christmas, right?” Emma nodded. “Well, we’ve been talking since Christmas. He really wasn’t a jerk today. It was, actually, almost good. It was fun.”   
  
“Fun? With my brother?”   
  
“I’m not lying to you, Swan.”   
  
“And Henry was there too.”   
  
“You’ll remember I told you that I enjoy spending time with Henry.” Her stomach flipped and then twisted into, what felt like, eight very complicated knots. “We had a good time, love, snow notwithstanding.” 

“So, David told you about the results? Anything else I should know about that you two are sharing on top-secret soccer outings with my kid?”   
  
Killian laughed – and something flashed across his face and Emma was almost certain she missed it, but it was gone before she could try and pick out what exactly it had been. “It wasn’t quite top-secret. Sending text message updates about it seems to cut down on the secret keeping of it all.”

Emma nodded, teeth digging into the side of her tongue. “They’ll probably send a search party out for us soon,” she said, nodding back towards the door and wondering how no one had actually appeared in the hallway demanding their return to the apartment. 

“I should probably get back. I think Eric’s starting to count the number of Saturdays I’ve only kind of half-cooked and he’s using them as some sort of blackmail fodder for when him and Ari finally have kids. Like he can use it to force babysitting on me.”   
  
“That’s a very involved plan.”   
  
“I wouldn’t put it past him.”   
  
“Go,” Emma said, nudging her shoulder into his and fighting away the vaguely ridiculous disappointment she felt settle in the pit of her stomach at the word. “God forbid you have to babysit for a baby that hasn’t even been conceived yet.”   
  
“I might just go say bye to Henry?” He phrased it like a question and he rocked back on his feet a little bit when he looked back up at her, finger back underneath the hem of her shirt. And it was so absurdly endearing she could hardly think straight. 

“Of course. He’d probably send at least eight angry texts if you didn’t.”   
  
“At least.”   
  
Killian followed her back into the apartment – eyes following them when they walked back into the living room and Emma shook her head deftly in Ruby’s direction, the questions practically falling out of her producer’s open mouth. 

He said goodbye to Henry, promises of more soccer in the snow and root beer floats and kissed her softly on the cheek – and Ruth didn’t even try to quiet her very loud, very dramatic gasp at that – squeezing Emma’s hand in his. “You could come by later, if you want,” Killian said, keeping his voice low so as not to attract even more comments from the metaphorical peanut gallery that was her family. 

“We’re taking Ruth uptown. Dinner and a whole bunch of touristy things that kind of make my skin crawl, but she likes them and Henry likes them. He’s bringing Violet, you know.”   
  
“So I heard.”   
  
“He told you that?”   
  
“Several times,” Killian laughed. “I think between me and David he’s asked just about every question about twelve-year-old dating he possibly could come up with.”   
  
Emma wasn’t quite sure what to do with that information – a mix of something oppressively parental sparking at the idea of her almost-teenage son even thinking about dating and something entirely different and emotional about the same almost-teenage son asking her brother and her boyfriend for dating advice. 

“Is that ok?” he asked, picking up on everything she was thinking without a single word. 

“Yeah,” Emma answered, a bit breathless and that was just  _ absurd. _  “That might be the nicest thing I’ve heard today.”  
  
“That’s the nicest thing you’ve heard today?”   
  
“Well, the whole  _ I love you thing _ was pretty good too. A highlight for sure.”   
  
Killian laughed loudly, kissing her again. “I’m glad it at least made the highlights.”   
  
Her head was spinning – the last half an hour playing on repeat in her mind like she couldn’t quite believe it had actually happened, a far cry from the slightly frustrated TV chefs who had sat in that conference room a few months ago, determined not to spend their next year playing all-star for the network. 

God, she was going to have to thank Ruby. And probably Regina. 

And she wanted him to come home with her – or, at least, to her. 

“You could come over later,” Emma said, enjoying the surprised look on his face at the suggestion. “Like once you’re closed.”   
  
“It’ll be late.”   
  
“I know, but you’re not very far away. And it’s nice having you there at night.”   
  
Killian cocked one eyebrow, eyes crinkling a bit when he smiled. “You want me to stay?”

“I remember something about not kicking out and ever being tossed around earlier,” Emma said. “Unless that was all talk.”   
  
“It wasn’t.”   
  
“Then come when you’re closed. I’ll still be up.”   
  
“I’d like that.”   
  
“Go,” she said, all but pushing him towards the door. “Or Eric will kill you. I’ll see you later.”   
  
He nodded once again, still smiling as he wrapped his hand around the door knob, swinging it open behind him. “Bye, love.”   
  
“Bye.”   
  
The door closed loudly and Emma spun around, leaning against the wood and trying to get her bearings. She saw Mary Margaret staring at her from the other side of the living room, a look on her face like she knew  _ exactly _ what had happened and couldn’t have been more pleased with her ability to get in Emma’s head and make her  _ do things. _

Emma twisted her neck forward, reaching around behind her and grabbing the chain she hadn’t taken off in nearly thirteen years, pulling it over her head and staring at the small emblem in her hand – everything she’d refused to allow herself to believe in, every doubt she’d ever had and certainty that nothing would ever be worth it. 

Nothing would be enough. 

She was an idiot. 

And, apparently, prone to melodrama. 

And Killian Jones loved her back. 

She pushed the chain into her back pocket and  _ everything _ felt lighter without it hanging around her neck as she walked back into the living room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally though, right? Slow burn is all I know how to write, so thank you guys for sticking with me for THIRTY CHAPTERS before we go to this point. Jeepers. There's still a good chunk of story left. What are words? 
> 
> Thank you absolutely always to Lauren who fixes all of those words and makes them better words and figures out when I skip words completely. 
> 
> Come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	31. Chapter 31

“You’re making me nervous.”  
  
Robin grunted in response, not even trying to slow his stride as he paced back and forth in the tiny waiting room they’d been ushered into twenty minutes before. It was February and there was, at least, six inches of snow on the ground and it felt like it was five-hundred degrees in this closet-of-a-room and it was, absolutely, because Robin would not stop pacing back and forth.

“What could you even possibly be nervous about?” Killian asked, resting his back against the one window in the room, determined to try and cool down without actually getting his jacket wet in the process.

He didn’t need Regina to kill him in the middle of her wedding.

“You live with Regina,” he continued, trying to catch Robin’s eye mid-pace. “You’ve lived with Regina for _years._ She is desperately trying to adopt your son. Nothing is going to change at all. You’re just going to be able to file taxes together now.”  
  
Robin stopped pacing – coming up short just a few feet away from Killian’s outstretched legs and Regina would absolutely kill him if he tripped her almost-husband and broke several of his bones before he made it to the altar.

“It’s not the same,” Robin mumbled, scuffing his shoe for good measure.

“You’re pulling at straws.”  
  
“You wouldn’t understand.”  
  
“You sound like Roland.”  
  
Robin laughed, finally looking up at Killian, smile just a bit shaky when he met his gaze. He was standing up straight, though, and that seemed like a step in the right pre-wedding direction. “Where is Rol?”  
  
“You are a picture of fatherly responsibility.” Robin sighed loudly, stepping towards Killian and leaning up against the wall next to him. “He’s outside with Emma and Ari. She’s been instructed to bring him back here five minutes before we start. Figured we’d cut down on pre-wedding miscues that way.”  
  
“Good, that’s good,” Robin muttered and he might have started pacing, but it was still five-hundred degrees in this room and he was just as nervous as ever.

Clearly.

“You going to tell me what you’re actually nervous about now?” Killian asked, shifting his shoulders to move to a still-cold portion of the window.

“Gina will kill you if you get that jacket all condensation’ed.”  
  
“That’s not even a word.”   
  
“Doesn’t change the fact that she’ll kill you.”   
  
“A fact I’ve already considered,” Killian said pointedly, moving again despite his certainty that Regina wouldn’t _actually_ commit murder on her wedding day.

It might be more hope than certainty.

“And it seems to me,” he pushed, widening his eyes meaningful at a now slightly-nauseous looking Robin, “that you’re doing a very good job of trying to avoid having this conversation with me.”  
  
Robin’s head fell forward, landing on his chest with a soft thump, tie shifting underneath his chin. “I’ve been trying to figure out a way to tell you this for weeks,” he said, mostly into the fabric underneath his mouth. “And I’ve come up decidedly short every single time.”  
  
And Killian might have gotten nervous at the tone of his voice and the way his eyes were practically boring a hole into the seemingly far-too-cheap for how expensive this hall was carpet and he shifted again against the window.

His coat was wet.

“What could possibly be so difficult to tell me?” he asked, stepping away from the window and crossing his arms, fingers wrapping around the top of his brace almost unconsciously.   
  
“I didn’t want to deflate that bubble.”  
  
“What?”

“That happy, little bubble you’ve been living in for the last three weeks. You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed. You’re practically on a whole different level of in love with Emma Swan. And, apparently, telling her you actually _do_ love her. Out loud, with words. Like an adult human being.”

Killian’s eyes widened, air rushing out of him like someone had checked him into the boards of a hockey rink. And he nearly fell over, feet faltering just a bit when Robin’s grin widened into something that was decidedly smug.

“What?” he repeated.

Robin didn’t look quite as nervous anymore – and Killian supposed, in the grand scheme of things, if this is how he got Robin not to be nervous anymore, ten minutes before he was supposed to be in front of an altar, it might have actually been alright.

And because he’d absolutely been on an entirely different plane of loving Emma Swan.

He’d spent the night at her apartment after those moments in the hallway and they’d made breakfast together the next morning, Henry sitting in the living room alternating between shouting requests and cries of despair when the zombie continued to eat him in the video game he was playing.

He’d spent the night four more times in the last three weeks and Henry and Emma had come to The Jolly eight times and he absolutely wasn’t keeping count. He just happened to remember these kinds of things. And there was a mix of homework and drinks and making food together and he couldn’t quite wipe the smile off his face.

She’d spent the night last Friday – Henry going to some sort of eighth-grade party, Emma nervous over what that meant and he’d only teased her a little bit about spin the bottle and seven minutes in heaven. She’d glared at him, green eyes flashing across the table of the restaurant they’d managed to agree on, but then she leaned towards him and muttered something about _she’d_ never actually played spin the bottle and they barely made it out of the restaurant, check hastily paid and a handful of cash dumped onto the table, before his hands were wrapped around her waist in the backseat of a cab.

They didn’t, technically, play spin the bottle.

But there was a good amount of kissing.

Three weeks and Killian was positive he’d never been happier.

Robin was still grinning at him, weight rolling back on his heels as he eyed him expectantly. “You know, you never actually told me that happened,” he said, not even trying to keep the accusation out of his voice.

“I’m not particularly in the habit of broadcasting the status of my relationship.”  
  
“Nah,” Robin laughed. “Why do that when you can just make out everywhere? Including your restaurant.”  
  
“Is that how you figured it out?”  
  
Robin shook his head, smile managing to get even wider. “I’ve got to make sure I got this right.” He held up one finger, like he was ticking off the line of gossip in one single restaurant and Killian resisted the very strong urge to roll his eyes. “Emma told her sister-in-law, Henry heard that, then heard _you_ say it, then told Roland when he asked about first mate metaphors a few weeks ago and Rol told Gina and Gina told me.”  
  
“So you were the last one to find out, huh?”

“Because you’re a terrible best man.”  
  
“I am the _best_ best man,” Killian argued. “I didn’t even charge you for any of the food everyone will be eating later tonight.”  
  
“You’re not even cooking it.”  
  
He wasn’t. Eric was. And Killian almost felt bad about that. Ari had certainly done her best to make sure he felt bad.

But he was a selfish, clingy asshole and he wanted to dance with his girlfriend during the reception without having to worry about appetizers or food temperatures or making sure all the entrees got out at the same time.

And then he’d probably tell Emma he loved her again.

Because he couldn’t quite seem to stop himself.

“That’s true,” Killian admitted. “But, let’s be honest, I probably should have charged you. Because Gina has changed her mind about apps no less than ten times in the last week and you’ve got three entree options, which is just obscene and because I could probably use some extra money.”  
  
It was supposed to be a joke.

They were supposed to laugh and maybe open that window he’d stopped leaning up against because it was still five-hundred degrees in this room.

It was supposed to be funny.

Instead, it felt like all the oxygen had been sucked out of the, maybe, one hundred square feet Killian and Robin were occupying.

And they hadn’t even opened the window.

The smile flew off Robin’s face like it was actually running away and he nearly slid down against the wall he was leaning against. “That was meant to be funny,” Killian pointed out, trying to keep his voice relatively calm when it felt like his stomach was twisted in several knots.

“I know.”  
  
“And it wasn’t?”  
  
Robin shook his head. “This is what I’ve been trying to avoid.”  
  
“You don’t have to do this now, you know. You’ve got a couple of other things going on in your life right now. Hardly need to worry about bursting some sort of metaphorical life bubble for me.”  
  
Robin did laugh at that, twisting his neck and cracking the knuckles in his fingers – the sound practically overwhelming the tiny space. “It’s kind of about the money thing,” he said quickly, words tumbling out of his mouth like a dam had  broke in front of them.

“What kind of money thing?”  
  
“A money thing that includes Gold calling me a week ago and bumping up the payment schedule and not being even remotely pleased with you losing on purpose.”  
  
Killian wished he was still leaning up against the window –  wet jacket be damned – mostly so he wouldn’t actually fall over. And now he was the nervous one and his heart slammed painfully on the back of his ribs, like it was trying to remind him that it was still there and functioning and wanted to remain just as happy as it had been for the last three weeks.

Fuck.

“There’s more,” Robin muttered softly.   
  
“How could there possibly be more?”   
  
“It was a long conversation.”   
  
“Why wouldn’t he just call me? He’s very big on calling you.”   
  
“Because I found him. I went to him. And this all kind of seems like my fault.”   
  
“You’ve lost me.”   
  
Robin sighed again, pressing his fingers into his temples and rubbing across his eyes quickly. “He told me that this wasn’t going to be, and I’m quoting him verbatim here, taken _lightly_. That you two had made a deal and, despite your decision not to honor it, he wasn’t giving up on his end of the bargain.”

“Is this 1892? Who says shit like that?”  
  
“I think he’s serious, Killian. Remember what I told you before? About John and that review?” Killian nodded. “I think Gold set that up. He’s got people all over the place, writers he gives tips to and then they write glowing reviews and people go to his properties and his businesses and he rakes it all in. This isn’t just us having to pay some more or even pay some more faster. He could put stuff out there. Stuff we don’t want him to know.”

And he didn’t miss what Robin was _really_ saying – stuff Killian didn’t want anyone to know.

Stuff he didn’t want the network to know.

Stuff he didn’t want Emma to know.

Emma.

Fuck.

“Emma knows about all of that,” Killian said softly, not sure if he was reassuring himself or Robin. “About the Navy and Liam and, well, everything.”  
  
“Everything?”

Killian nodded again, sinking into a chair he’d only just noticed in the far corner of the room. “All those less than ideal moments. Even Milah.”  
  
Robin’s eyes were going to fall out of his head. “You tell her about the deal?”   
  
And that wasn’t even fair – Robin cutting to the center of everything _important_  with just a few words and this wasn’t the kind of conversation they should be having, now, six minutes before he was slated to get married.

“You’re an ass,” Killian mumbled, crossing his arms tightly and, maybe, just a little petulantly.

“I’ll take that as a no, then?”  
  
“No,” he groaned. “And not for lack of trying. I’ve wanted to tell her since I took her to the warehouse and that was months ago.”  
  
“Why haven’t you?”  
  
“Because it’s not a big deal.”  
  
“Seems like you’re doing a very good job of avoiding the subject.”  
  
“You didn’t tell me about this Gold phone call for weeks.”  
  
“You never actually told me that you and Emma said _I love you_.”  
  
Point to him.

Killian rolled his eyes and hoped Roland was, at least, on his way down the hallway because this conversation had taken a turn he wasn’t entirely ready for. Or interested in. He was very good at avoiding.

And he wanted to avoid telling Emma about this deal.

“You should tell her,” Robin said, sounding a bit like he did when he disciplined Roland. “You should have done it months ago. But you can still save some face if you do it now.”  
  
“What do you think is going to happen? Exactly?”  
  
“Exactly?” Killian shrugged. “I think Gold’s going to tell her.”  
  
The room had, somehow, gotten smaller – which was impressive considering it hadn’t been very big to begin with. It felt like the walls were caving in or the chair he’d dropped into at some point was shrinking. Or maybe that was just his lungs.

Because he couldn’t really breathe.

“How would Gold even know about Emma?” he asked and Robin’s eyebrows ticked up at that – his voice taking a particularly desperate edge before he could even try and stop it.

“You two haven’t exactly been sticking to the shadows. It’s like you’ve made it your jobs to actually try and make out everywhere.”  
“We’ve never done that on camera.”

Just on the sets. Before the cameras were on. And after the cameras were on. And that one time on Chopped. But there weren’t any cameras around then.

“Yeah, but you always kind of looked like you wanted to,” Robin said. “Even from the start. Not to mention all those promos Gina and Ruby forced you two into.”  
  
Killian groaned again, slumping down in the chair until his legs stretched out in front of him and he was staring at the ceiling, trying to count the tiles up above him so his mind wouldn’t drift to the possibility of what Robin was suggesting.

“She’ll understand,” Robin said, answering a question Killian hadn’t actually asked.

“You don’t know that.”  
  
“I do. It’s an all-star competition, Killian, and all you were trying to do was expand your restaurant and save some money. You didn’t kill anyone. You didn’t even really do anything wrong. You just didn’t tell your girlfriend. So you fix it now and you tell her what could happen and then you two go back to being in some happy first-few-weeks-of-the-relationship bubble.”  
  
“That’s awfully confident for a guy who was, admittedly, too nervous about this phone call to bring it up for weeks.”  
  
“She loves you too,” Robin said simply and Killian sat up a bit. “I haven’t wanted to tell you, but that hasn’t meant I’ve been living in some kind of box. And she and her kid have practically been living at The Jolly for the last few weeks. Plus, I feel kind of bad.”  
  
“About?”  
  
“I told you. I brought Gold in. We could have gotten the spot uptown and it would have been fine. Now you’re making deals and breaking deals and Gold’s calling me with veiled threats and possible ins at major dailies.”  
  
“That’s not your fault.”

Robin groaned and rolled his eyes as the door to the tiny room swung open and a very enthusiastic, very impatient seven-year-old sprinted inside. “We’ve got to go,” Roland yelled, nearly colliding with Robin’s knee.

“Relax, mate. We’ve got time.”  
  
“Dad! We’ve got to go. Ariel said I had to come get you.”  
  
“Where is Ariel?” Killian asked, a pair of wide eyes meeting his in response. He felt the smile inch across his face at the look, certain he knew exactly what happened. “Did you run away from Ari, Rol?”  
  
Roland stared at the ground, drawing another, slightly more entertained, groan from his father. “Rol you can’t just run away like that. We’ve got a plan we’ve got to stick to.”  
  
“I know the plan,” Roland argued. “That’s why I came here when A told me to. I just got here quicker than she did.”  
  
As if on cue, Ariel appeared in the doorway, slightly out breath and a bit flushed, both of her heels held loosely in her in hand, like she’d pulled them off in a desperate desire to keep up with Roland Locksley. “You can’t just sprint down the hallway like that, Rol,” she said, clearly trying to catch her breath.

“I had to come get Dad and Uncle Killian.”

Ariel rolled her eyes, but she was smiling, back pushed up against the door frame and chest heaving just a bit as she kept trying to catch her breath. “Yeah, well, we’ve done that. So maybe we could stand still for a second or two?”  
  
Roland nodded, unaware that not everyone in the room had the same athletic stamina as he did. Or an apparent desire to sprint up and down the hallways of one of the most expensive event halls on the entire island of Manhattan.

“How’s it going out there?” Robin asked, clearly doing his best to keep his voice light. Killian didn’t believe it for a second.   
Neither did Ariel.

Even Roland looked slightly amused.

“Nuh uh,” Ariel argued. “No updates from me on what you’re really trying to ask. Also I don’t know. I haven’t been back there.”  
  
Robin’s shoulders sagged and Killian clapped him on the back before leaning down to grab a still-running Roland from falling flat on his face. “You are a terrible informant,” Robin muttered, glaring at Ariel who, now that she’d gotten her breathing back to normal, seemed more focused on teasing every single person in the room.

“I never agreed to that,” she shot back, widening her eyes and flipping her hair off her shoulders. Robin made a face and maybe weddings just did this to people – brought out every single immature feature before they settled into the most mature decision of their life. He needed more to drink. Killian was bordering dangerously close on philosophical.

And he really wanted to see Emma.

They hadn’t come together – best man duties and catering duties and trying to apologize to Eric for forcing him in the kitchen all night duties requiring him to be in, what felt like, ten places at once and he wasn’t going to force her to try and get ready with Regina and her small army of bridesmaids.

And Cora.

He mostly didn’t want to subject Emma to Cora Mills.

Because Cora Mills terrified him just a little bit.

And terrified Robin a lot.

And maybe that’s why the appetizer menu had changed this morning. Jeez. He’d have to apologize to Regina later.

“Although,” Ariel added sharply, shaking Killian out of whatever string of thoughts he’d been focused on. “I did see Emma.”  
  
“That’s not fair at all,” Robin mumbled, tugging Roland towards him and straightening his tie despite an onslaught of quiet grumbles. “You’re supposed to be mad at him.” He nodded towards Killian, hand still hanging in the air after Roland had moved out from underneath it. “He’s robbing you of a dancing partner all night.”

“I’m not saying I’m not mad at him.” Killian rolled his eyes and held up both hands in the air, a silent surrender to a fight he wasn’t entirely certain he’d be staging. “But I am saying that Emma’s here and she definitely bought a new dress. Just think, Killian, now you can add this very expensive event hall to the places you’ve made out.”  
  
Robin barked out a laugh – making Roland grumble a bit more when he nearly tugged too tightly on his re-tied tie – and Killian needed to find new friends.

And new employees.

And see what kind of dress his girlfriend had bought.

“You know, I finally got him to admit it,” Robin muttered, looking straight past Killian towards Ariel. She gasped loudly, bobbing a bit on her still-bare feet, not even trying to stop her mouth from hanging open.

“No!”

“I did.”  
  
“If you all knew already,” Killian said darkly, drawing two pairs of suddenly nervous eyes. “I don’t understand why it’s such a big deal.”   
Ariel sighed dramatically, flipping her hair across her face for added effect. “Spoilsport,” she said, walking towards him and resting her head against his shoulder. “It’s not a bad thing, you know.”   
  
“I know that.”   
  
“How come you didn’t say anything then?”   
  
“I clearly didn’t have to.”   
  
“Killian.”   
  
He sighed, moving his arm to wrap around her shoulders tightly and it felt like four years before and hours spent trying to memorize menus and à la carte side options and every single bottle of wine they had behind the bar.

Ariel shook her head against him, hair brushing against his jaw and Killian knew why he hadn’t wanted to say anything – because despite everything his mind had managed to conjure up since that first meeting in the network conference room, he still couldn’t quite believe this was _happening_ , couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud to anyone but Emma, far too afraid of jinxing it and losing it.

And he was in far too deep to even consider the possibility of losing her.

He was a mess.

“It’s not like you’re at a loss for people to talk to,” Ariel said softly, eyes meeting his with so much emotion and determination, Killian wondered how long she’d been thinking about this. If he knew Ariel, and he _definitely_ knew Ariel, it had been weeks.

At least.

“I know that,” he mumbled.

“But?”  
  
“But this is important Ari.”

There it was. Or at least, there most of it was. He still hadn’t actually said the words out loud, the certainty that Emma Swan was _it_ in some sort of overwhelming, fairytale meaning of the word, but he was almost positive he didn’t have to.

They knew.

The entire stupid restaurant knew, just like the entire stupid restaurant had known he loved her – probably before he did.

He just needed to make sure Emma knew.

Ariel grinned at him, nodding slowly before pushing up the balls of her feet and kissing his cheek quickly. “Good,” she said, murmuring the words against his skin.

“You know,” Robin said, laughing as he rested his hand on Killian’s shoulder. “I almost think you’re stealing my romantic thunder.”  
  
“Nah,” Ariel argued. “Wait until Gina comes out. There’ll be so much romantic thunder this whole stupid building will shake.”  
  
“I thought you said you hadn’t actually seen her.”  
  
“I lied.”

She shrugged, pulling her shoes back on her feet before walking out the door without another word – leaving three stunned, tuxedo-wearing people in her wake. “I don’t know how Eric deals with her,” Robin muttered and Killian shook his head, not sure if he was agreeing or simply in disbelief over the hurricane Ariel Marvoz was.

Someone knocked on the still-open door to the room and Killian vaguely recognized it as the wedding planner Regina had hired last year. The same one Cora had terrorized over the last few days. “We’re ready for all three of you now,” she said, smiling at the tiny group of them. “Roland, you want to come with me? You’re going to line up outside so you can go down the aisle before Gina and her bridesmaids, ok?”  
  
He nodded seriously – like he’d been provided this instructions a dozen times in the last twenty-four hours, and he certainly had – turning to look back at Robin before he left. “You ok, mate?” Robin asked, crouching down to meet him eye-level.

Roland nodded again and his tie had, somehow, gone crooked again. It was never going to be straight. “Are you?”  
  
Killian laughed, running his hand through his hair and the wedding planner yelled for Roland again. “Go, Rol,” he said, nudging him towards the door. “We’ll see you at the altar ok?”

“Ok,” Roland said, but he didn’t move an inch. He leapt towards Robin, knocking him back onto his heels and threatening to send both of them towards the floor.

There was something to be said for spending a good portion of your adult life on a ship though, because Robin hardly moved, just wrapped his arms around his son and held him tightly against him for a moment and Killian was split between feeling as if he was intruding on something and battling such a fierce wave of _want_ that he almost fell on the floor.

The planner yelled again, sounding like she was already halfway back down the hall, and Roland pulled out of his father’s arms, grinning like he was the one who’d been waiting for this moment for the last five years.

And, to some extent, he might have been.

“Bye Dad,” he yelled, sprinting back out the door. “Bye Uncle Killian!”

Robin took a deep breath, pushing the air back out of his lungs loudly and shaking his head. “You ready to do this?” Killian asked, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye.

“Yeah,” he said and there wasn’t even a trace of nerves or a shake to his voice. “I am.”

* * *

It was over the top and big and there were more people packed into that expensive hall than Killian was positive he’d ever meet in his entire life, but he’d never seen anyone look happier than Robin and Regina did as soon as the music swelled and she walked down the aisle.

And maybe there was something to this whole believing in happily ever after, after all.

She was sitting four rows back, in between Ariel and Will and, jeez, Belle French. And while he wouldn’t ever say it out loud, Killian would have sworn she was even more gorgeous than Regina.

She’d absolutely bought a new dress.

He needed to tell her about Gold.

He _wanted_ to tell her about Gold.

That seemed, somehow, like a very important distinction. Because, now, Killian wanted her to know everything. Like some sort of team.

Or something equally cliché.

He was staring at her when Regina and Robin kissed, Emma’s eyes meeting his with a smile on her face and her fingers pushing her hair back behind her ears.

There was music and they’d been instructed exactly how to retreat back down the aisle at the rehearsal the night before – some sort of measured pace he could hardly keep to with the determination to get to his girlfriend.

“If you don’t slow down you’re going to actually yank me out of my heels,” Zelena hissed in his ear. “Relax. She’s not going anywhere.”  
  
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Killian said, eyes trained on his shoes as he counted steps to make sure he was keeping up with the metronome the wedding planner had set for them. And so he didn’t overtake Robin and Regina in front of them.

That probably wouldn’t have looked very good.

“Sure you don’t. Hey, remind me later next week that we want to talk about what happens with you two after the end of this all-star thing.”

He stopped walking. And Zelena nearly tripped over her shoes.

“What?” Killian asked, arm nearly tugged out of his socket as the head of his network dragged him down the last few feet of the aisle.

“Gina didn’t say anything?”  
  
“She’s been a little preoccupied, you know.”  
  
Zelena rolled her eyes – as if massive wedding ceremonies and receptions were hardly an excuse for neglecting to tell him about future show ideas on the network – leading him to the side of the lobby as Robin and Regina stationed themselves for the receiving line of, approximately, half a million guests.

“She should have told you,” Zelena said seriously. “Whatever. It’s fine.”  
  
“Told me what, exactly?”  
  
“We want to keep this going.”  
  
“You are talking in riddles.”

She groaned loudly and her eyes were going to get stuck like that if she kept rolling them into the back of her head with so much force. “We’re coming up on the end of this all-star event,” Zelena said, falling back into network-mode with relative ease despite the amount of _dress_ she was wearing. “But Gina and Ruby and I were thinking that we might be able to keep this thing going with you and Emma on screen. You two are the reason this event has done so well, after all. There’s no reason you can’t keep working together once we wrap. And it’ll keep the ratings up. You two could be like our new on-screen pair. You could be the those new cake people! Or like Bobby and Ann.”  
  
“They, as you just so eloquently put it, bake cakes,” Killian argued, crossing his arms tightly. “We don’t do that. And I don’t think Bobby and Ann were dating. Unless I missed out on some very important updates.”

“That’s not even remotely the point.”  
  
“Then what is the point?”  
  
“The point,” Zelena sighed, “is that you two are a pull. And I’m not willing to give up on that pull after we’ve wrapped all-stars.”  
  
“You’re not willing to give up on your ratings. Is what you’re saying?”  
  
“If that’s how you want to think about it, sure.”  
  
Killian shook his head, trying to take a deep breath through his nose. Zelena didn’t blink, just smiled at him like she’d explained the whole thing perfectly and without room for debate.

And, in theory, it made sense.

But Emma’s show was _hers_ and he had The Jolly and this expansion and Gold to deal with. Not to mention an Iron Chef schedule he was certain Regina wanted to pack once all-star shooting was done.

She wouldn’t give up her show.

That had been the point of all of this.

And, somewhere deep down, he hated himself a little for thinking that Zelena might actually be right, that tiny little voice that was just a bit nervous at what would happen when they weren’t on set together and weren’t working together.

“Does Emma know?” he asked.

Zelena’s lips pressed together tightly and that was as much of an answer as anything she could have said out loud.

“Does Emma know what?”  
  
Killian spun on the spot, nearly colliding with Zelena in the process, to find her standing there, a small smile on her face and it took less than three full seconds before he took a step towards her, hand falling on her waist.

“Swan,” he said slowly. “You look…”  
  
“I know,” she said, smile widening and all he saw was green before he ducked his head to kiss her. Her lips moved across his, hands tugging on the front of his tuxedo jacket to pull him closer to her and his fingers tightened instinctively on the fabric of her dress, wrapping around her waist until he was positive he wouldn’t have noticed anything else around him, even if Robin and Regina decided to get married again.

Zelena groaned, the sound of heels retreating pulling him out of the moment slightly and Killian pulled away from Emma slowly, trying to memorize every single thing about the moment.

“You don’t look so bad yourself, you know,” she said, fingers trailing away from his jacket to fist in his hair.

“Smooth talker.”  
  
She laughed, the sound shooting straight to his heart and it felt like all the blood in his body was racing against itself, trying to move as quickly as possible in order to keep up with the rhythm pounding just behind his ribcage. “I like this dress,” he continued. His hand hadn’t moved at all, still gripping fabric tightly.   
  
“Yeah, strangely enough, I think I picked up on that.”  
  
“Smart.”  
  
Emma nodded, eyes flashing up at him, the laughter still etched on the corners of her mouth. “What were you guys talking about?”  
  
“Who?”  
  
“You and Zelena.”  
  
“Oh,” he said softly, earning him a pair of slightly widened eyes, clouded a bit with concern now. “Just about what’s going to happen after the all-star stuff wraps.”  
  
“And that includes me?”  
  
She really was smart. And very good at getting him to talk. And now he had two things to tell her, vaguely terrified that she wasn’t going to be interested in hearing either one. Killian sighed and all he wanted to do was kiss her again and, maybe get her to dance again, if only because it gave him a socially acceptable excuse to continue holding her waist as tightly as he was.

And then he wanted her to come home with him.

Indefinitely.

He didn’t think he’d tell her that. Not yet.

Killian sighed, kissing the top of her forehead and Emma’s expression didn’t change – wide eyes and raised eyebrows and one side of her mouth turned up, like she knew he was teetering on some sort of metaphorical edge of something.

“I’ve got to talk to you,” he said.

“Ok.”

She didn’t question, didn’t argue, just laced her fingers through his and followed him back down the hallway towards the shoebox of a room they’d gotten ready in before.

And that might have made him love her even more – and _that_ may have made this the most important conversation he was ever going to have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The angst. It's there. It's looming. As promised. Thank you so, so much for the continued response to this story. It just absolutely blows my mind. 
> 
> I am nothing without @laurenorder, who fixes all my words. Come flail with me on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	32. Chapter 32

It was blue. 

The dress she was wearing was blue. 

And, somehow, didn’t manage to cut off any of her circulation or make it all but impossible to breathe. 

Mary Margaret had claimed that was some sort of sign. As if dresses could give signs. 

It felt like a sign. 

Emma would never admit that out loud. 

Ariel had come jogging back down the aisle with only a few minutes to spare before the very fancy invitation Killian had shown Emma two days before promised the ceremony was slated to begin. She slid into the chair next to her, hand pressed flat against her chest and trying to shake her hair out of her eyes. “Jeez, I’m out of shape,” she mumbled, throwing a smile Emma’s direction. 

“Everything ok?”  
  
“Oh yeah, yeah, everything’s fine,” she said quickly and it didn’t entirely sound like everything was fine. Emma raised her eyebrows and widened her eyes just a bit, earning a dramatic sigh from Ariel, whose bangs fell back into her eyes when she rolled her entire body in response. “Ok,” she mumbled, “so Robin was pacing and there was a lot of hugging and somehow Killian’s jacket got all wet.”  
  
  
“Killian’s jacket got wet? Did they go outside?”   
  
“Beats me, they were holed up in some shoebox of a room when I went to deliver Rol. He was very interested in your dress though.”   
  
“Who, Robin?”   
  
“Killian,” Ariel said with all the tact of someone who was still fairly out of breath and not particularly interested in putting up with Emma’s brand of slightly off-color, pre-wedding ceremony jokes. “Obviously.”   
  
“Obviously.”   
  
She was just about to ask what exactly Ariel had told Killian about her dress when there were footsteps in front of the quasi-altar someone had, presumably, built the night before in this very expensive event hall and Emma didn’t actually  _ need  _ to ask if he’d been interested in her dress – it was practically written on his face. 

He barely even scanned the crowd – admittedly a bit intimidating in its size – before landing on her, one side of his mouth turning up immediately and Emma felt her own smile move across her face quickly, a rush of  _ something _ emotional shooting through her entire system. 

Mary Margaret had promised she’d  _ sweep him off his feet,  _ but Emma was willing to settle for stunned in front of an altar. 

The music started and Ariel nudged Emma’s shoulder, pulling her attention away from Killian to find a tuxedo-wearing Roland Locksley all but sprinting up the aisle, a box clutched in his hand and a smile on his face. He skidded to a stop in front of Robin, pushing the box towards his father. Killian reached forward to grab it, shaking his head slightly and Emma’s pulse felt like it was pounding in her ears. 

It was painfully adorable and she felt herself  _ wanting _ before she even realized she’d considered anything remotely like that. 

There was a shift in key or rhythm or something and the doors at the end of the room opened again, Zelena walking a few feet in front of Regina. 

And it was like she’d stepped into a movie. 

Emma shouldn’t have been surprised – she’d seen the scrapbook or the want-to-be Pinterest board, after all – but she couldn’t help the soft gasp she let out when she saw the producer walking down the aisle, a picture of white and fitted silk and, quite possibly, the longest veil she’d ever seen in her life. 

It was perfect. 

She looked perfect. 

She looked perfectly happy too. 

There were vows and Roland nearly tripped over his own feet grabbing the ring box out of Killian’s hand to make sure he had his  _ moment _ during the ceremony and then were kisses and, maybe, a few tears and some of them might have actually have been Emma’s. 

“Are you crying?” Ariel asked, voice shaking a bit as she rubbed her knuckles across her cheeks, dragging a bit of mascara along with her. 

“Absolutely not,” Emma promised, blinking quickly like that would hide the evidence. 

“Of course not. Me either. Only saps cry at weddings.”  
  
“Did you cry at your wedding?” 

Ariel shook her head, stepping into the aisle almost as soon as Robin and Regina had walked by them. “Nah,” she said. “I was too busy making sure my dad didn’t kill Eric.”  
  
“Your dad didn’t like Eric?”

She made a noise in the back of her throat, something that sounded almost like a derisive laugh and Emma raised her eyebrows waiting for the explanation. “He does now,” Ariel said, lining up behind what might have actually been a hundred people waiting to hug and congratulate Robin and Regina. “But that might have only been because of Killian.”  
  
“What?” Emma asked, almost breaking her ankle as she came up short. 

“You didn’t know that?” Emma shook her head and Ariel rolled her eyes, taking a few steps backwards as the line continued to move. “He’d probably never admit it out loud, but Killian absolutely talked to my dad about Eric. At the wedding, I’m fairly positive. Told him Eric was a good guy and made enough money to be acknowledged by my family, which seems fairly absurd for the parent of a restaurant hostess, but it seemed to sink in. My dad’s, like, obsessed with Killian now. Thinks he’s the greatest.”

Emma blinked again – and maybe she was crying a little bit again. And she really wanted to see her boyfriend. 

“I’ll be right back,” she muttered, ignoring Ariel’s knowing smile as she glanced around the lobby to try and find Killian.   
  
He was in the corner, arms crossed over his chest and his jacket didn’t look like it had gotten wet before the ceremony started. 

It looked good. He looked good. 

Emma was bordering dangerously close to suggesting they find some sort of closet somewhere when she heard Killian’s voice a few feet ahead of her, the concern in his tone obvious even before she’d come up next to him. 

“Does Emma know?” he asked, gaze not wavering as he looked intently at Zelena. 

“Does Emma know what?”

He moved quicker than she expected, practically knocking over the head of the network, to look straight at her and if she’d thought he was staring at her in front of the altar, it was nothing to the way he looked at her with just a few inches separating them. 

Killian took a step forward, hand falling on her waist and fingers gripping the fabric of her dress. 

“Swan,” he said slowly. “You look…”   
  
“I know,” she said, grinning at him and there was no reason  _ not _ to be kissing him. Emma tugged on the front of his jacket and she vaguely heard Zelena groan before she started walking away and this was a very good start to a fourth date. 

“You don’t look so bad yourself, you know,” Emma mumbled, pushing her fingers into his hair and she hoped he didn’t have to take pictures later. 

“Smooth talker.” She laughed softly, forehead falling forward to rest on his shoulder and his hand hadn’t moved a single inch. “I like this dress.”  
  
“Yeah, strangely enough, I think I picked up on that.”  
  
“Smart.”  
  
“What were you guys talking about?” she asked, the question falling out of her mouth before she could stop herself. Emma bit into her lip tightly, glancing up at him quickly and, hoping, she hadn’t quite ruined the moment entirely.  
  
“Who?”  
  
“You and Zelena.”  
  
“Oh,” he said softly, like it was a question he’d hoped she wouldn’t actually ask. Moment ruined. Officially. “Just about what’s going to happen after the all-star stuff wraps.”  
  
“And that includes me?”

Killian took a deep breath – she could feel his whole body move with the effort of it – and his hand fell away from her waist as he leaned forward to kiss the top of her forehead. She waited, eyes wide and eyebrows raised and tried to look encouraging. 

He looked nervous. 

“I’ve got to talk to you,” he said. 

“Ok.”

She answered without thinking about it, without letting herself even try and imagine what could possibly make his face go slack like that, eyes dulling and it felt like he couldn’t get quite enough oxygen to his lungs. Killian grabbed her hand, tugging her across the entryway back towards the hallway, turning a corner to where the ceremony had been and where they were still setting up tables and a dance floor. 

“What’s going on?” Emma asked, fingers tightening in his. 

He opened his mouth, shoulders dropping in a way she wasn’t entirely sure she’d ever seen before, but he didn’t even get a chance to say a single syllable before someone came sprinting into the room, nearly screaming his name. 

“Cap! Cap!” 

Killian groaned, eyes closing lightly as he turned around to stare at a manic-looking Eric. “What?” he spat and Emma squeezed his hand tightly. 

Eric took a step back and it was only then that Emma noticed his normally immaculate white jacket was smeared with stains, like he couldn’t stop rubbing his hands on the fabric and there was a patch of hair sticking up on the back of his head. “Uh,” the sous chef muttered, “sorry to interrupt.”  
  
“It’s alright,” Killian said, voice just a bit calmer on second try. “What’s going on?”  
  
“Cora wants to change things again.”  
  
“What?”

“She wants to get rid of the sliders and do something else.”  
  
“Something else with, literally, pounds of ground beef?” His voice shook with the frustration Emma knew he was barely keeping contained and she twisted around him, sliding up against the side of his body until she’d wormed his arm around her, head resting on the slope of his shoulder. 

“I know, Cap, I know,” Eric sighed, rubbing his hands on the front of his jacket again. “And I know you’re not supposed to be worried about this shit tonight, but I don’t know what to do.”  
  
“Did Cora, in her, I’m sure, long list of demands, point out what she wanted instead of sliders? The ones we put on the menu for Rol?”  
  
Eric shook his head before Killian had even finished talking and he groaned again at the answer. “You got another jacket?” he asked, arms already halfway out of tuxedo before Eric even had a chance to be properly scandalized. 

“What?”  
  
“Another jacket. We must have brought extra ones right?”  
  
“I don’t think so.”  
  
Killian rolled his eyes, but he was actually smiling now and Emma knew where this was going. He was going to play hero. And save the appetizers. “Well, I’ll just have to try and not make a complete mess of things,” he said, grinning at Emma over his shoulder and for a moment she almost forgot that he’d been trying to tell her something before. 

Almost. 

“You don’t have to do that,” Eric sighed. “I only came out to find out what you wanted to make. A will kill me if I make you work.”   
  
“She’s the one who was mad about it,” Killian argued. Eric just shrugged, seemingly torn between a wife who wanted things to go according to plan and a boss who would know what to do with several pounds of ground beef. “Swan,” he said, handing her his coat. “You’ll have to make sure Ari doesn’t actually stage some sort of protest in the middle of the reception here, ok? And I want to know exactly what’s going on with Scarlet and Belle, deal?”   
  
Emma stared at him, eyes narrowing slightly at the coat he was still dangling in front of her. And if he thought she’d just sit there and  _ wait for him,  _ he had absolutely lost his mind. 

“Swan?”

“Yeah, no, I’m not doing that,” she said, setting her feet and crossing her arms tightly. 

“What?”  
  
“Let me help.”  
  
“What?” he repeated. 

“That was English, right?”  
  
“It was.”  
  
“Then what was confusing exactly?”  
  
Killian twisted his mouth slightly, one side of his lips pulling up and he looked equal parts entertained and surprised. He shouldn’t have been either. 

“Nothing, love,” he said slowly, pulling his hand back and draping his coat over his forearm. “We don’t have anymore jackets, apparently.”  
  
“And if you think the lack of a jacket has ever kept me out of a kitchen, then you’ve got another thing coming. Come on, you know I can, at least, chop things efficiently.”  
  
Eric laughed loudly and Killian spun around quickly with, what Emma could only assume, was a very specific type of glare on his face. “Guess I’ll just have to be careful then, won’t I?” she asked. 

Killian pressed his lips together tightly, a straight line that was nearly as full of tension as his shoulders appeared to be. “Fine, but we’re doing this quick, ok?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
He shook his head, running his hand through his hair as he stalked back towards the kitchen – or where Emma assumed the kitchen had to be. She wasn’t entirely positive where they were going. 

“Meatballs,” Killian said, two minutes and one very quiet trek down the hallway later. “We’ll make meatballs.”  
  
“You’ve got breadcrumbs?” Emma asked, glancing at the small staff that appeared to be everyone on The Jolly Roger’s payroll. 

“We’ve got mini hamburger buns. And I’d imagine there are eggs somewhere here in this kitchen.”

“There are like ten dozen eggs in the fridge,” Eric confirmed.

“That could work then,” Emma said, trying to adjust her feet in her heels as she glanced around for some kind of knife.   
  
Killian grinned at her, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt as he moved back towards a counter in the corner, a small pile of vegetables sitting on the formica. “What do you want to do, Swan?” he asked and that caught her off guard just a bit. 

“What do you mean?”  
  
“I won’t make you mix the actual meatballs,” he laughed, grabbing a knife and slicing across several packages at once with an efficiency that both stunned and impressed her just a bit. “God forbid we mess up that dress. But there are other things you can do.”  
  
“Like?”

“Stuffed mushrooms?” Eric asked, jogging past Killian and nodding towards someone who was searing something on top of one of the stoves on the other side of the kitchen. 

“You’re making full stuffed mushrooms?”

Killian shook his head, eyes not coming off the mixture he was already halfway done making. “Half,” he said quickly, cracking an egg. “Like half-shell oysters, but, you know, with mushroom tops.”  
  
“That’s kind of ingenious.”  
  
He looked up at that, blue eyes flashing at her and Emma was struck with the realization that they worked well together. Really well together. What had he said before? They’d been strapped back-to-back at the time and if she was under oath, Emma would have to admit that she hadn’t been listening to him as much as she was trying to document the way his body moved against hers, but it was something important. 

_ We make quite a team. _

They did. 

And she wondered, all over again, what he and Zelena had been talking about. And what he had to tell her. 

“A compliment, Swan?” he laughed, one eyebrow pulled up his forehead. 

She shrugged and someone deposited a bowl of cut-up mushrooms in front of her like some sort of vegetable-elf. “Don’t let it go to your head.”   
Killian laughed, glancing at her and taking a, maybe, unconscious step closer. “Not until we’re home at least,” he muttered, sending a very certain type of chill down her spine. 

Emma didn’t say anything, but her back teeth captured her cheek tightly as she tried to keep breathing like a functioning human being holding a very expensive, very sharp knife. He laughed again and that was hardly fair, he shouldn’t  _ know _ just like that. 

They worked in silence for the next half an hour – Ariel only tried to barge into the kitchen once and maybe there was something to be said for red hair and tempers and trying to control situations – sticking to an appetizer schedule Killian had come up with weeks before. 

They snuck bits of food off trays as they went out of the kitchen, a seemingly never-ending carousel of uniformed waiters and Killian barking orders at cooking staff like he actually  _ was _ a captain of some sort of metaphorical food-focused ship. 

It was probably best that Emma didn’t mention that. 

His shoulders could only hold up so much tension in a single night. 

And for as much as she hadn’t expected to be in a kitchen, doing her best not to get a single piece of mushroom or stuffing on her very expensive, very blue, very form-fitting dress, Emma enjoyed herself. 

She enjoyed working and cooking and watching Killian in his element. 

Quite a team. 

The final appetizer tray went out nearly an hour after Eric had interrupted them – and, by Emma’s count, had apologized for that interruption no less than seven times – and Killian’s hand was on hers soon as the kitchen door swung shut, tugging the handle of the knife out of her grip and grinning at her like he couldn’t quite believe she was there.

“We’re done, love,” he muttered softly. 

“You didn’t ruin your shirt did you?” she asked, leaning back slowly to glance at the fabric. He hadn’t. Of course he hadn’t. 

Killian shook his head, eyes roving up and down her torso. “And you seemed to save your dress too.”  
  
“Almost as if I know how to chop cleanly.”  
  
“I never doubted you for a second, Swan.”  
  
“Yuh huh,” she laughed, walking towards the door and she could hear him following behind her, muttering dinner instructions at Eric and promises that he wouldn’t set a single foot in the kitchen for the rest of the night. 

“I’ve got plans,” he said and Emma’s dress felt a bit tight. Mary Margaret clearly hadn’t taken swooning into account when they picked the size. 

The hall was a chaotic mess compared to the orderly kitchen they’d just walked out of, but it was also filled with music and dancing and a color scheme that was so incredibly fine-tuned that Emma was a bit surprised Regina hadn’t requested that the staff repaint the walls to match everything. 

It was perfect. 

“Well,” Killian said, unknowingly snapping Emma out of a potential descent into jealous and wants and, God help her, hopes. “We’ve wasted enough time, don’t you think, love?”  
  
She didn’t have a chance to respond with any kind of vaguely witty retort, a million and two slightly sarcastic comments hanging off the tip of her tongue, Killian’s fingers wrapping around her wrist and tugging her towards the jam-packed dance floor, twisting them through the crowd until they were, somehow, in the middle of it all. 

“Where have you two been? Adding another location to the list?” Will laughed at them and there may have been a bit of alcohol involved and Belle looked apologetic, pressed up tightly against him. 

“Watch it, Scarlet,” Killian muttered. Will’s smile didn’t waver an inch. “We had to cook.”

“Killian saved the appetizers,” Emma said, ignoring the way he sighed dramatically at that. 

“Of course he did,” Will groaned.  
  
Killian made some noise in the back of his throat, something that sounded like disbelief and Emma shot a conspiratorial smile in Will’s direction. He winked at her. 

“What had to get saved?” Belle asked. “Because everything was pretty delicious.”  
  
“The meatballs,” Emma answered and she was on some kind of supportive-girlfriend roll, ready and willing to brag to anyone who would listen. It wasn’t a position she was particularly used to, but she liked to imagine she was doing a pretty good job of it. 

And if the way Killian’s fingers kept tracing over the back of her neck, left hand anchored on her waist, was any indication, her instinct wasn’t too far off. 

“Those were my favorite,” Belle said. 

Will rolled his eyes. “You’re going to inflate his ego,” he laughed, but she just smacked her hand lightly against the front of his collared shirt.   
  
“Uncle Killian!”

He groaned again, leaning away from Emma slightly to make sure Roland didn’t collide with either one of their legs, reaching down to scoop up the seven-year-old in what was, quite clearly, a practiced movement. “What’s the matter, mate?” Killian asked, shifting Roland as he spoke. 

“I don’t have a seat,” he yelled, nearly screaming the words in Killian’s ears. 

“Of course you do, up there with your dad and Gina.”  
  
Emma glanced the direction Killian had nodded in – only to find a very preoccupied newlywed couple sitting there. In the only two seats that were at the table. 

“Uh, Killian,” she said softly, widening her eyes towards the pair. He practically growled, eyes rolling up towards the ceiling and if he wasn’t holding the ringbearer of this wedding Emma absolutely would have kissed him. 

And she knew it wasn’t the plan he had – knew there was, somewhere, some plan and some alternate universe that was probably full of dancing and swooning and a fair amount of kissing and didn’t include appetizer disasters or sarcastic bartenders or seven-year-olds who were, apparently, without a seat for dinner. 

And she also knew she didn’t care. 

Because this, this entire mess was  _ real _ and that sounded cheesy and ridiculous when said out loud, but right there, staring at Killian with Roland propped against his side, eyes occasionally darting towards her like he was trying to apologize without actually saying anything, she couldn’t imagine wanting anything more. 

“I don’t want to sit with Cora,” Roland said, mumbling the words into Killian’s collar. He’d never put his jacket back on. 

“I wouldn’t want to sit with Cora,” Killian muttered under his breath, glancing at Emma with one side of his mouth pulled up. 

“Why don’t you come sit with us, Rol?” Emma asked and he nearly leapt out of Killian’s arms at the suggestion. Killian grunted when a well-placed knee collided with his stomach. “We can find another chair or push some people around.”

“Really?” he asked and somewhere along the line someone was going to have to teach this kid about volume and voice control. 

“You sure, Swan?” Killian asked softly, something flashing across his face. 

She nodded quickly as Roland wriggled back towards the ground. “Yeah, of course. Can’t leave him to fend for himself with the appetizer queen.”

Killian’s shoulders shook with laughter, grinning at her with every one of those vaguely ridiculous emotions she’d just told herself sounded far too absurd to actually say out loud. They worked better on his face anyway. “That does make sense,” he said.   
  
“I seem to remember being called smart earlier, so it’s only fair I live up to the reputation.”  
  
“Emma,” Roland said, cutting in between the two of them and tugging on her hand. “You look really pretty.”  
  
And if this wasn’t bordering dangerously close to perfect, it was probably because it was actually something Emma had dreamed up. 

“Hey,” Killian said, grabbing him by the waist and hauling him over his shoulder, ignoring Roland’s loud yelp as he flipped him over his shoulder. “Back off, mate. It’s bad form to go after a crewman’s date like that.”  
  
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Roland laughed, kicking his feet slightly as they made their way back towards the table. 

“We’ll let this one slide.”  
  
“I don’t know, Rol, you might have a bit of an edge here,” Emma said, grinning at Killian and trying to not pay too much attention to the way her stomach kept flipping inside her body. “After all, your outfit is so much better.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, hand finding the back of her neck the moment they sat down. “Was that a challenge, love?”  
  
“You going to duel for my honor with a seven-year-old?”  
  
“No,” he said, muttering the word against her ear. “I’m going to get us back on the plan.”

* * *

The cab stopped outside The Jolly Roger and Emma’s body jerked a bit at the sudden shift in momentum, head colliding almost painfully with Killian’s shoulder.

Her feet hurt. 

She should have bought better shoes. 

Or  _ brought _ better shoes. 

Or a purse that could have fit flats. 

She didn’t do any of that. Instead, she danced until she was positive she had a fair share of cuts on the back of her heels and a whole slew of blisters that weren’t doing anything to make her feel nearly as attractive as she wanted to when the cab was stopped outside The Jolly Roger. 

“Still with me, love?” he asked softly and her heart stuttered in her chest a bit, his voice landing in the very middle of her. 

And that’s how it had been all night – after the appetizer disaster and Roland missing a chair and Will refusing to stop talking about makeout locations until Killian had actually muttered something about hours and jobs and divulging information to recently acquired girlfriends – a mess of  _ normal _ that made Emma’s pulse thud painfully in her veins, like it was setting a tone for everything she’d ever wanted. 

Or something like that. 

She was exhausted. 

She hadn’t actually answered him, just hummed in response, cheek pressed up against his tuxedo jacket as she tried to burrow herself against his side. That was easier said than done while he was also trying to pay for the cab, but they were doing an admirable job of it, a mess of limbs that, somehow, managed not get knotted up. 

“Come on, Swan,” Killian muttered, leaning them both forward slightly to grab the receipt from the driver, before pulling her onto the curb, letting her rest her weight against him without so much as a single word. 

He just smiled at her. 

The entire building was dark – the first time Emma had ever seen it like that, had ever really seen it without a line practically wrapped around the block – and neither one of them said anything as Killian directed them towards the back door, keys shaking just a bit as he pulled them out of his pocket. 

She pulled her heels off as soon as the door closed behind them, earning a soft chuckle from Killian as he laced his fingers through hers as they made their way upstairs. 

It was quiet in his apartment – the only sound the light switch as he flipped it on and the soft pattern of his shoes on the hardwood floor. And she wasn’t entirely sure what she should say or what she  _ would _ say if she could even think of a single word. 

It seemed like a  _ moment,  _ like something they’d both been waiting for, but had been too afraid to actually hope for it. 

And Emma wondered when she’d gotten so goddamn sentimental. 

Probably around the same time he said he loved her back in the hallway. 

“Hungry?” Killian asked. Emma shook her head. “Thirsty?” Another head shake. 

He shrugged out of his jacket, tossing it lightly on the arm of the couch a few feet behind him and she wasn’t positive he had actually blinked since they walked into the room, eyes gazing at her intently like they were trying to find something there. 

She wondered what it was. 

“I’m sorry it didn’t go according to plan tonight,” he muttered, voice dropping softly as he leaned against the side of the couch, absolutely wrinkling his jacket. 

“What do you mean?” Emma’s voice felt scratchy in her throat, like she hadn’t actually spoken in several years instead of the few minutes it had actually been. 

“I did have a plan. That didn’t include you cooking tonight. You’re not supposed to cook on a date.”  
  
“We both cook all the time.”   
  
“Yeah, but this was supposed to be special or something equally ridiculous.”   
  
“It was,” Emma said, trying to put every ounce of certainty she’d ever felt when it came to him in those two words. “Special, not ridiculous.”   
  
“Yeah?” And her heart might have cracked a bit at the uncertainty in  _ his _ voice.  

Emma nodded slowly, dropping her heels in the corner behind the door, stepping towards Killian and he absolutely hadn’t blinked, all blue eyes and his hand pushed in his hair and that earnest, little smile on the corner of his mouth. 

She pressed her knees against his, thighs practically springing open so she could step into his space, her hands pushing their way underneath the jacket she had forgotten he was still wearing. Killian’s head fell forward, resting on the front of her body and Emma’s hands were in the bottom of his hair before she’d even registered that she had limbs and they were moving. 

“For what it’s worth,” she said, whispering out the words while she tried to take a deep breath. “I’m glad it didn’t go according to plan.”  
His head snapped up, questions etched into nearly every corner of his face including the small crease between his eyebrows. “It shouldn’t have been so hectic.”  
  
“It was fun.”  
  
“You had fun cooking and listening to a seven-year-old?”  
  
“I had fun cooking with _you_ and in case you weren’t listening, that seven-year-old was doling out some pretty impressive compliments all night. So, yeah, I did.”  
  
His eyes widened a fraction of an inch and she heard his sharp intake of breath, saw the small way his head shook, like he couldn’t quite believe she was there. It was a look she’d noticed more than a few times that night. 

It made buying the dress worth it. 

He might have muttered something that sounded like  _ incredible _ before he was standing up and lifting her slightly and kissing her – hard. 

And for all the softness of the earlier moment, the whispers and the slow movements, this was the opposite, bruising and forceful and the culmination of a ridiculous amount of emotions and a brand-new, blue dress. 

She groaned against him, hips rolling of their own volition as she tried to keep her feet on the ground. It was difficult to focus on walking, however, when he was doing  _ that _ with his mouth, pressed up against the slope of her shoulder, teeth grazing along the strap of her dress. 

“Did I mention I like this dress?” Killian asked, voice low and she was probably still standing. The mattress pressed up against the back of her calves was a fairly good indicator. 

“I think I’d heard some rumors about that. Although most of them were coming from a kid, so, who can really be sure.”  
  
He growled against her skin, nudging her forward until she was back against the bed and her dress was a lost cause and her hair was twisted underneath her. Emma’s hands moved quickly, grabbing at belt buckles and tucked in shirts that were dangerously close to being ripped off. Killian’s fingers, meanwhile, were working their own pattern, tracing across her skin until they were pushing up her thigh. 

“This dress needs to come off,” he said sharply, tugging on the fabric. 

“And here I thought you were such a fan.”   
  
“I’m not disputing that. I’m just suggesting that this might be a bit easier if the dress weren’t part of the equation anymore.”   
Emma laughed – and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d done  _ that _ while doing  _ this _ before she’d started doing both with Killian. 

“For the record,” Killian said softly, pulling on the zipper down her side so slowly it was closing in on tortuous. He looked right at her as he tugged the dress off, letting it fall out of his hand and it sounded like an anvil crashing on the ground, it was so quiet in the room. “This was the end of the plan.”

She tried to say something, mutter something about  _ her _ plan and what she wanted, but he was doing all of it anyway and it almost seemed counterproductive to point out what was already happening. 

And it was all right and perfect and overwhelming. 

And she was happy. 

Emma was halfway between consciousness and not, nearly half an hour later, a tiny fire burning in the pit of her stomach when she  _ felt _ his lips move against the back of her neck, arm tightening around her waist. She fell asleep with his  _ I love you  _ ringing in her ears. 

It was, probably, hours later, but it could have been a few minutes when Emma’s eyes snapped open, trying to figure out where that noise was coming from. 

And what it was. 

It was loud. 

Painfully loud. 

And the apartment was still dark. 

God, what time was it?

“That’s your phone, Swan,” Killian mumbled, arm still wrapped around her waist, knee nudging lightly against the back of her thigh. 

Oh, that’s what it was. 

She reached forward, twisting slightly and he groaned when she moved away from his arm, hand falling unceremoniously on the mattress behind her. 

Ruby. 

Ruby was calling her. 

The apartment was still dark and Ruby was calling her and  _ fuck _ , what if something had happened to Henry? 

Emma swiped her thumb across the screen, propping herself up on her forearm and trying to keep the terror she felt in every inch of her body out of her voice. “Rubes?” she asked. 

“Em, where are you?”  
  
“I’m, uh, I’m with Killian. Is everything ok? Is Henry ok?”

“Oh, yeah,” Ruby said quickly and Emma exhaled loudly, nearly falling back on her arm. She felt Killian’s hand back on her waist, thumb tracing back and forth and she _almost_ felt ok. Something was wrong. She knew it.   
  
“What’s going on?” she pushed. 

Ruby heaved a sigh on the other end of the phone. “I think you should check your e-mail. You’re going to want to see this.”  
  
Emma pushed herself up, clicking through apps and inboxes to find the link Ruby was, presumably, talking about. It was a tabloid – one of those magazines that sit on the front of corner bodegas and the check-out lines of grocery stores. 

And she saw her name in the URL. 

_ Jailbird: Cooking star Emma Swan’s convict past, the secrets she’s tried to hide _

There was a subheadline too and something about a network source that was, apparently, ready and willing to confirm her time in jail and her kid and her rap sheet and her  _ too hot for cameras _ relationship with Killian Jones.

And she was glad the room was still dark because she absolutely looked as horrible as she felt, like her organs were twisting and knotting and working their way forcibly out of her body. 

“Swan?” Killian asked softly, sitting up next to her. She brushed him off, shaking her head quickly and pulling the phone back up to her ear. 

“How did this happen?” Emma said, voice cutting through the room. 

Ruby sighed again, groaning loudly into the speaker. “I have no idea.”  
  
“Does Zelena know?”  
  
“She’s the one who sent the link to me.”  
  
“Fuck,” Emma mumbled. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”  
  
“We’ll figure it out, Em,” Ruby said, but there was a distinct lack of promise in her voice. It was already out there. There was a headline and photos and an anonymous source that actually named her kid in print. 

Fuck. 

“I just, I thought you’d want to know,” she continued and Emma wasn’t entirely positive she actually did. “Don’t worry. Don’t worry at all. This is nothing. This is  _ good.  _ It just means you’re popular. It’ll be fine.”   
  
“Sure,” Emma said. Ruby sighed again, the lie practically teleporting uptown and slapping her in the face. “Listen, uh, I got to go, ok?”   
  
“Ok.”  
  
The phone clicked and Emma squeezed her eyes shut, Killian’s questioning gaze practically burning the side of her face. “Swan?” he asked again. 

She handed him the phone without another word, pushing the sheets away from her legs and flipping on the light. It was, apparently, time to wake up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :squeezes both eyes shut and winces slightly:
> 
> Oh, hai, guys. Still with me? I hope so. It will get...dramatic before it gets better, but they're absolutely, positively, going to talk. Finally. As always, the response to this story blows my mind and I am just constantly stunned by how fantastic you all are. 
> 
> @laurenorder fixes all of this and makes it better. Come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	33. Chapter 33

The phone felt heavy in his hand.

And he wished he had another one so he could hold Emma’s. Or come up with something even remotely reassuring to say.

He couldn’t think of a single word.

He just kept staring at the phone in his hand, trying to keep his wrist steady so it didn’t fall on top of the sheets wrapped up in between his legs.

She was pacing, muttering underneath her breath a few feet away from him. And Killian hadn’t moved an inch.

This was his fault.

Fuck.

His whole body hurt, like he’d been thrown into ice water, tiny, metaphorical knives cutting into his skin. Killian stared at the headline again and realized, with startling clarity, that he didn’t know any of this – all these so-called facts in this over-the-top tabloid story.

She hadn’t told him either.

Fuck.

“Say something,” Emma said softly, stock still in front of his closet like she hadn’t been pacing a small trench into his floor for the last five minutes. “Please.”  
  
“Is this true?” he asked.

Fuck. That’s not what he wanted to say.

He sounded like he was accusing her of something, of the secrets she was keeping and the walls he was fairly positive he’d scaled a few weeks ago. That wasn’t what he was trying to do. He had no idea what he was trying to do.

Emma’s eyes widened and Killian squeezed his own shut – the metaphorical knives returning in full force to make him feel like the asshole he absolutely was. “I’m sorry,” Killian muttered, sitting up a bit straighter and setting her phone on the night stand next to his brace.

It buzzed as soon as he let go of it, a near-constant vibration that seemed to last at least ten seconds. They both stared at it and he heard Emma sigh, the sound of a zipper drawing his gaze away from the phone.

She’d put the dress back on.

“I’ll probably have to steal Ariel’s flats again,” she said slowly, staring at her still-bare feet. “I didn’t bring other shoes.”  
  
“That’s ok.”  
  
She nodded – a jerky movement that made it harder for him to breathe, chock-full of nerves and uncertainty and those goddamn walls. “Ok.”  
  
Emma pressed her lips together tightly, tugging them back behind her teeth as she pulled her hair back up. It had fallen out the night before. She took a few steps back towards the bed and for one crazy moment, Killian thought she was going to sit back down, but she just grabbed her phone, thumb scrolling down the screen.

And the look on her face was enough to make the little air he’d managed to pull into his lungs rush right back out again – teeth pressed into her lip and eyes narrowed, blinking quickly like she was trying not to cry.

This was his fault.

“Ok,” Emma repeated, knuckles turning white as they gripped her phone tighter. It vibrated again. “So, uh, I guess I’m going to go.”

She turned back towards the bedroom door and Killian was certain he’d never moved that quickly in his life, lunging across her side of the bed – and he couldn’t even bring himself to consider the idea that it wasn’t _exactly_ that – to wrap his fingers around her wrist, pulling her up short.

Her eyes went wide and her whole body stiffened and Killian saw the muscles in her throat move as she swallowed, but he didn’t let go. He held on tighter. Clingy asshole.

_Explain. Say something. Everything. Say. Everything._

“Swan,” he said sharply. “Sit. Talk to me.”  
  
“About what?”  
  
Killian nodded at the phone still gripped tightly in her right hand and Emma’s shoulders dropped as she sighed loudly. She didn’t sit down.

She also didn’t leave.

“Is any of this true?” Killian repeated, softer that time and Emma couldn’t blink fast enough to stop the tears from falling down her cheeks. She nodded and it felt like something actually snapped inside him, like some internal organ had just stopped working.

It felt a hell of a lot like being thrown over the deck of a ship.

He slid closer to her, swinging his legs over the side of the mattress until his knees were pressed against hers. He didn’t let go of her wrist.

“All of it?” She nodded again. “When?” Emma’s eyes widened in confusion for a moment before she realized what Killian asked. And those same eyes narrowed again as she pulled her wrist away from his fingers, crossing her arms over her chest.

“You didn’t read the story?” she asked, voice cloaked in sarcasm.

“I’d rather hear it from you.”  
  
“It’s all right there.”  
  
“Swan.”  
  
Emma sighed, glancing up at the ceiling as she rocked back on her heels, dress moving with her and God he wished she’d sit down. “I was seventeen. Well, eighteen too. Depends on what month you’re talking about.”  
  
And it all clicked at once – like he blinked and realized, suddenly, the reason for the walls and the cautious way she’d approached him months ago. “Emma,” he said, voice low and her gaze snapped towards him like a magnet. “Were you…?”  
  
He didn’t even get a chance to finish his question, Emma’s chest heaving slightly as she nodded quickly, finally sinking onto the bed next to him, shoulder brushing against his in a way that absolutely should not have made Killian feel like that previously non-working internal organ had started up again.

Emma kicked her feet forward slightly, heels colliding with the box spring as she brought her legs back. She stared at the floor when she spoke.

“I should have told you,” she said. “After, well, after everything you’ve told me about Liam and Milah and everything. I should have told you. Mary Margaret and Ruby said I should have done it weeks ago, but then the hallway happened and the last three weeks happened and last night happened and I just…”  
  
Emma trailed off, knuckles pressing forcefully into her cheek as she tried to brush away tears. That woke him up. Killian turned on her, pulling her hand down and replacing it with his own, thumb brushing across her face lightly.  
She leaned into him.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he said, trying to keep his voice light. The small smile on his face felt foreign, like his muscles weren’t supposed to work that way. “It’s not a contest, love.”  
  
Her laugh was shaky, lips pulled back behind her teeth when heard the sound and Emma shook her head quickly. “No, no, you should know. I, just, I didn’t want you to think this was me. Or, I don’t know, it sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud. I didn’t want you to think less of me because of it.”  
  
She rushed over the final few words, practically spitting them out and Killian felt his mouth drop open slightly at the idea.

Emma was staring at the opposite wall, back straight with the tension she was holding. And for all his inability to say the right thing before, Killian was talking before he’d even realized, words falling out of his mouth with ease.

“That’s not possible,” he said. She didn’t look convinced. “You said it yourself. You know the worst parts of me, Swan, and you haven’t turned away from any of them. Why would you think I wouldn’t do the same for you?”  
  
“You’re serious?” Emma asked, whispering the words, lips barely moving as she spoke.

“I love you. That’s how it works, right?”  
  
Her sigh might have been a laugh or a groan, but her whole body moved when she made the noise, spinning on him before Killian had entirely prepared for the movement and the force behind it nearly knocked him over. Emma kissed him like it was an answer to his question and he wouldn’t mind if this was how they had every conversation going forward.

But he still needed to tell her.

And the weight of _that_ settled in the pit of his stomach.

She knew – and that might have made him, somehow, love her even more – pulling away and looking at him questioningly as soon as she felt his body shift against her.

“You really want to know?” Emma asked, eyes moving across his face quickly.

“Whatever you want to tell me.”  
  
Her phone buzzed again, but her eyes didn’t leave his as she nodded. “Ok,” Emma breathed out, like she was convincing herself it was. “I was seventeen and Neal had just moved to Storybrooke and David hated him. Couldn’t stand to be around him. Even M’s wasn’t a fan. But they were leaving, getting ready to go to New York, and I didn’t care about anything they told me. So, like I told you, Neal and I got fairly serious fairly quickly.

And we also got fairly serious about stealing things. It started small. There weren’t that many stores in town we could actually do any real damage to and that’s how I rationalized it. But then, a week or so after David and Mary Margaret had left, Neal told me about this deal he’d made. I still don’t understand the specifics. He told me the less I knew the better, but I just had to be on the New Hampshire border at midnight with a box of watches and there’d be guys there with money. I was there and the guys weren’t and neither was Neal. Just the cops.”

“He’d tipped them off. I didn’t find that out until after I got out of jail. But he wanted to get out of Storybrooke and that was his ticket. Set me up, let me take the fall and then be gone before I’d even realized.”

“I just wanted so hard to believe someone would want me like that. And Neal did. For awhile. Until he didn’t. They wanted to give me more time, but I got off in eight months.”

She tried to smile when she finished talking, her story settling into the empty space of the room and that internal organ had stopped working again. Killian wasn’t even sure he was still breathing, just focused on not breaking several things in his room.

“And Henry?” he asked, earning a soft laugh from Emma.

“I found out two weeks in. That helped my lawyer’s argument I think, but no one ever really told me that. I think they were scared of setting me off on some sort of emotional guilt trip. I thought about adoption, you know.”  
  
And for all the surprises of that morning, that might have caught Killian off guard the most. He couldn’t imagine Emma without Henry or, for that matter, Henry without Emma.

“I didn’t think I could do it,” Emma continued, unaware of the way his whole body was churning with every word she spoke. “And I was terrified. I mean, I’d just barely graduated high school and it’s not like I had scholarship offers or schools clamoring to get me on campus. I didn’t have anything. Until David played hero again.”

“He came home for Christmas and we came up with a plan and Ruth was just so happy to have a baby in her house again, she was willing to do whatever we wanted. And I wanted to cook.”  
  
Emma took another deep breath, but she’d stopped crying as soon as she started talking about her family. Killian nodded, trying to keep her talking.

“We moved to New York when Henry was a little over a year old and I started going to school. I slept on David and M’s couch for the next ten months, a crib in the corner of the living room. And it was an unqualified disaster.” She laughed again, smile making her whole face seem lighter for a moment. “We had a schedule for it all, rotating on midnight cryings and watching him during the day and they played taste testers for everything I made. Henry’s never known Neal – or what Neal did, but he kind of got three parents out of the equation.”

And he realized, again, why David had been such an ass before – overprotective for a good cause because he’d come up short with Neal, unable to protect his sister in a way that Killian, now, understood better than just about anything.

Fuck.

This was all his fault.

He hoped David didn’t punch him when he found out. No, he’d deserve that.  
  
She sighed, eyes squeezing tight as her phone buzzed again and Killian’s arm moved around her shoulders quickly, tugging her against his side as he kissed the top of her head. “What’s he going to think of me now?” Emma mumbled, lips moving across his skin.

Her voice shot straight through Killian’s body – a live wire of emotion and a bit of desperation that made him reconsider breaking things again. He’d need both hands for that.

Killian nudged his shoulder up, forcing Emma to sit up straight and stared intently at her. She didn’t blink. “He’s going to think the same thing he always thinks,” he said. “That you’ve done everything you can for him. And then some.”  
  
“I think you might be a little biased.”  
  
“That’s not true at all,” Killian argued. “You are an incredible mother, Swan. Henry is lucky to have you. To have his entire family. It’s not something everyone gets you know.”

He hadn’t meant to talk that much – or talk about _that_. It felt unfair, pushing his own experience into the conversation, but he needed her to understand.

She was everything.

And he believed in her more than just about anything else in the world.

No matter what she’d done.

“You seem awfully confident,” Emma mumbled.

“In you? Always.”

Emma rolled her eyes, but her spine wasn’t quite as straight, her shoulders slightly less frozen and she leaned against Killian without another word. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before.”  
  
“You don’t have to apologize for that, Swan.”  
  
“I do, though. I mean you were right. You told me everything. From the get go. And you’ve never tried to pretend you were anything except what you are. I should have been able to do the same thing.”  
  
His heart thudded painfully in his chest and Killian bit the inside of his lip tightly, clenching his jaw until it hurt. Emma noticed that, fingers brushing against the nape of his neck until he couldn’t top himself from turning towards her if he tried.

He didn’t really try.

“You know that’s a good thing, right?” Emma asked. She was comforting him and he absolutely didn’t deserve it.

“I don’t know about that,” Killian mumbled and he saw Emma’s hair move as she she shook her head quickly.

“I do.” It sounded like a promise. It sounded like trust. And it was almost ironic, the way this had all worked – him so desperate for her to trust him, to believe that he wasn’t going to disappoint her or set up for failure, only to do just that.

“I love you too,” Emma said and his lungs might have collapsed at the sound. It felt like it. “You know that?”  
  
“I do,” Killian said, repeating her words back to her.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she continued. “This is, uh, this isn’t going to be good. Ruby’s known the whole time and Zelena knew about the record, but not the specifics. They’ve tried to keep that under wraps since the show started to air. That’s who keeps calling. Zelena. I think she wants to plan some kind of counter attack or something.”  
  
The phone buzzed again – like it knew they’d been talking about it – and Emma groaned, reaching for it, catching him by surprise when she actually swiped her thumb across it and answered.

“Hi,” she said quickly and Killian heard Mary Margaret’s voice on the other end, a slightly frantic sound that didn’t do much to help the weight of anxiety in his gut. “Yeah of course I saw. Ruby called.

Emma pushed away from him, pacing again as she pressed the phone against her shoulder, the bottom of her dress fluttering around her knees when she moved. “I don’t know, M’s,” she muttered. “Probably tomorrow. Just, do me a favor and don’t tell Henry. Not yet, ok?”

She didn’t say anything for a few moments, the muted sounds of Mary Margaret’s voice the only noise in the entire apartment and Killian wondered what time it was. It had to be early. It still looked dark outside.

That hardly seemed fair.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

It was supposed to be easier.

It was just supposed to work.

They’d been so happy. And he tried to convince himself, perched on the edge of his mattress while Emma continued to pace and mutter assurances to her sister-in-law that _everything was fine,_ that they could keep being happy.

Even his subconscious doubted him.  

“Yeah, M’s it was nice,” Emma said. Killian’s head snapped up, curiosity overwhelming his quick trip towards wallowing. “The dress was fine,” she mumbled and he felt one side of his mouth tick up. Mary Margaret was an optimistic force to be reckoned with. “Ok, ok, the dress was really good. I’ve got to go. Yes, later.”  
  
Emma glanced back at him, eyes a bit nervous when pulled her phone away from her ear. “She wanted to know how you liked the dress,” she explained, taking a step back towards him. “She helped pick it out.”  
  
He wanted to tell her he loved the dress and _her_ and that he was fairly positive she could do anything – even if that included tabloid headlines – but he didn’t. Emma smiled at him and all he could think about was everything he’d done wrong, a wave of guilt settling over him and threatening to drown him right there in his bedroom.

“Killian?” she asked, eyebrows pulled low with concern. “Are you alright?”  
  
“I have to tell you something.”

Emma nodded slowly as she put her phone back on the nightstand and it was obvious she was trying to keep her face even, but he saw her eyes flash, the corners crinkling just a fraction of an inch. “You said that yesterday.”  
  
“I don’t think we’re going to get interrupted by appetizer disasters this time.”  
  
“Ok.”  
  
He took a deep breath, trying not to rub his fingers over his left wrist. He pushed his palm into the mattress instead, trying to force the bottom of his feet through the floor so he didn’t do something ridiculous like get up and touch her.

If he did that, he’d never tell her.

“This is my fault.”

And the words might have actually hurt when he spoke them, cutting up his lips and his mouth and leaving him just a bit broken on the side of side of his bed. Emma tilted her head slightly, shoulders straight as a rail again as her fingers tapped out a nervous rhythm on the side of her thigh.

“What are you talking about?”

“That story,” he said, nodding back towards her phone. “It’s my fault. I’m so sorry, Swan.”  
  
“I don’t understand.”  
  
Killian ran his hand through his hair, grabbing tightly on the back as he tried to force himself to keep looking at her, terrified of the way her eyes would dim when she realized what he meant. “I, uh, well, I haven’t been completely honest with you, love.”  
  
Emma shook her head slowly, shrugging her shoulders and the oxygen felt almost foreign in his body as he tried to keep breathing. “I wanted to tell you for months. That’s why I brought you to the warehouse in the first place, to try and explain it all, but then you were there and you were talking about me being some sort of hero and I couldn’t do it. Not when you thought I was a good guy.”  
  
“You are.”  
  
“No, Swan. I’m not.”  
  
“I still don’t understand.”

He should have put more clothes on. Or at least a shirt. It all felt far too open, like he was on display in front of her. God, he was an idiot.  
  
“We were supposed to go uptown,” Killian said, still doing a piss-poor job of actually explaining this. “That was the plan originally. But then Robin found this guy, Gold, his name is Robert Gold and he owns the warehouse. He was selling it and it was cheap and Robin said the neighborhood was up and coming or something. Except there was a caveat to all of it, a reason it was so cheap.”  
  
“And that was?”  
  
“I had to win,” he muttered, sounding as disappointed as he felt. “If I won the all-star thing, he’d cut down on refurb costs and rent and a whole shit ton of stuff that made it easy to expand. He wanted to use me as some sort of draw for other clients. And that draw got a lot bigger if I won.”  
  
“But you didn’t do that,” Emma said slowly. The bed shook a little bit when she sat back down next to him, the hand on his knee sending a shockwave through his entire body. “You lost on purpose.”

“Exactly.”  
  
“You’re talking in riddles.”  
  
“I know, I know,” he mumbled. “I told Gold I was out. I didn’t care about winning or any of it. I wasn’t interested in some ridiculous deal with him.”  
  
“Why?”

And there it was. She’d done it again – cut right to the question that _mattered_. He should have told her before. She probably would have understood then.

“You needed to win, Swan. And keep winning. And I wasn’t going to stand in the way of that.” Emma opened her mouth, probably to say something that was unfairly supportive and encouraging and he couldn’t have that.

He couldn’t let her believe in him again.

Killian shook his head and Emma pressed her lips together tightly, eyebrows shooting up in silent question. “He told me it was an ‘interesting’ decision, but I didn’t think he’d do anything. What could he do? He owns a couple dozen buildings across the city. I just didn’t think. I couldn’t imagine he’d do this.”  
  
Emma’s hand fell off his leg and fingers lifting up to tug on the necklace she’d stopped wearing three weeks ago. “What are you saying?” she asked. “That your real estate guy put out some sort of tabloid story about me?”

“I don’t know,” Killian said honestly. “But I think so. He called Robin a couple of weeks ago, made a bunch of veiled threats about repercussions and Belle warned me he wouldn’t be happy about backing out.”  
  
“Wait, wait, Belle? Like Belle French?”  
  
“She was married to him. Apparently.”  
  
“Fuck.” Killian nodded, chest tightening when Emma’s fingers pushed against her collarbones. “But I don’t understand. Why would he do that? How would he find out?”  
  
“That reporter from before. The one asking questions? I think that was him. Robin said he knows people, uses them to get good reviews of the business he owns. I just figured it would have been _The Post_ or something. Not this.”  
  
“A national magazine, you mean? With my face plastered on the cover?”

Killian nodded again and Emma’s eyes didn’t dim when she looked at him – she glared at him, mouth set tightly as she moved a few inches to her right, putting the distance he’d been terrified of, quite literally, between them.

“I wanted to tell you. I wanted you to know what was going on from the very beginning, but I couldn’t do it. You were so sure, Swan, of me and everything and I couldn’t let that confidence shake. I thought it would be fine.”  
  
“It’s not.”  
  
“I know that.”  
  
“I still don’t understand why he did this. Ruby’s buried that information. It’s not like people haven’t tried to figure out who I am when I’m not on TV before. Why go through the trouble of digging all that up?”  
  
“To get to me,” Killian said with a certainty he hadn’t been expecting. Emma’s head snapped back towards him, eyes dark and glossy.

“What?”  
  
“Belle told me. She said he wouldn’t believe things were done. That he’s obsessed with agreements and deals like it’s fucking 1854 and contracts are signed with handshakes instead of having lawyers present. And I didn’t believe her. I didn’t think he’d do something to you if he did anything at all.”  
  
“Why though?” Emma pressed, tapping her foot impatiently on the ground.

“Because it’s worse.”  
  
And it was.

It was worse than anything they could have printed about him, any fact they’d be able to dredge up and plaster on the vaguely glossy cover of a national tabloid. Because he loved her more than he’d expected to or more than he’d been ready for and, somehow, Gold had figured it out.

And he’d thrown it all back in Killian’s face.

He would have let them put it all out there without a second thought – the Navy and the dishonor and the accident, every single horrible moment – would have given them a comment if it meant that Emma didn’t get hurt.

Robert Gold was a hell of a lot smarter than he looked.

“I love you,” Killian said slowly, thumb brushing away another tear. Emma flinched. And his heart sputtered. “And we haven’t tried to hide it. We’ve been fairly up front with it, aside from actually going public, but he used that. He knew I would have let them do whatever they wanted with me, that threatening me wouldn’t have done anything. So he went after you.”  
  
Emma’s mouth hung open, her breathing shallow as she gaped at him. “When did you know?” she asked, the weight of her very obvious anger and disappointment practically reaching out to hit him across the face.

“Know what?”  
  
“That he wouldn’t honor whatever ridiculous deal you made? When did you know?”

God, she was good.

It was the question he’d hoped to avoid – the weeks between then and now coming back to haunt him. “Right after Cupcake Wars. Belle knew what I’d done as soon as I lost.”

“Of course she did.”  
  
“I wanted to tell you.”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
“Swan,” he sighed, head rolling against his shoulder. Emma was standing again – like she couldn’t decide which direction to move in. “I’m serious. I just...it started before I knew you, before any of this.” Killian waved his hand in the several feet of space between them, nodding back towards the knotted up sheets for good measure. “And then once this started, I didn’t know how to tell you.”  
  
Emma nodded – foot still tapping lightly against the floor. She’d never put shoes on. “I get it. I do. But what exactly am I supposed to do with that now? What are we supposed to do now?”  
  
“What?” He asked the question sharply, neck moving quickly and he was off the side of the bed and in front of her before he even realized his feet had hit the ground. “What do you mean?”  
  
“I mean this is bad.”  
  
“I’m not disagreeing with you.”  
  
“And you lied.”  
  
“An omission of the truth,” he countered, trying not to let his voice give away the desperation he could feel coursing through his entire system. Emma’s hand ghosted over her neck again, tugging on the fabric of her dress like she needed to be doing something and Killian resisted the urge to pull her fingers away.

“It’s the same thing. What were you so nervous about? Aside from everything with the no-deal, deal. Why wouldn’t you tell me about the original decision from the start? It was a competition. You were supposed to try and win.”  
  
It was a fair question, one he would have understood in any sort of normal world where he wasn’t terrified that he’d fucked this up beyond repair. And when faced with a vague sense of terror like the one he felt at some still undetermined time in his apartment, Killian responded with sarcasm and frustration.

“It’s not like either one of us was in the habit of telling each other things, love,” he said, raising one eyebrow.

Emma took a step back and he was a bastard. A complete and utter bastard.

“I explained that,” she said, hissing out the words.

“I know. I know.” Killian rubbed his hand across his face slowly, fingers pressing against skin until they moved back into his hair. “It would have been fine if it was anyone else.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You don’t understand?”  
  
She shook her head, rocking forward just a bit and that one movement was enough to set him talking again, words spilling out into the space between him until he was practically rambling. “You have changed everything, Emma,” Killian said simply. She blinked half a dozen times, but he could see the tears falling down her cheeks. He kept talking.

“Everything,” he repeated. “From the moment you walked into the conference room until right now. I didn’t believe in much for a long time because everything disappeared. And for a long time the only thing in my life was the food and the restaurant and focusing on this expansion. But then you showed up and knocked everything on its side.”

“I wanted you to trust me. I wanted a lot more than I had any right to, frankly, but it was there, all of it, because of you. And suddenly, the things I thought were important didn’t matter quite as much. Not when you were there. So I didn’t tell you because I couldn’t bear the thought that you wouldn’t get what you wanted because of me and I wrestled with that idea for weeks. But then you brought me on your show and you let me in and I couldn’t care less about the rest of it. You’ve changed everything, love.”

She was breathing quickly, the sound of it echoing in his ears and her eyes were trained on his fingers, wrapped around his wrist and everything felt painfully raw.

Emma’s phone rang again, shaking on the nightstand and Killian bit back the groan threatening in the back of his throat. She didn’t say anything, just walked around him and grabbed it, answering it again.

“Hi Zelena,” she said, rubbing the side of her cheek against her shoulder. “What?” Her voice turned sharp on the question, rising a few octaves. “No, no, you don’t have to do that. Don’t do that.”

She put her palm flat on the nightstand, fingers nearly brushing against his brace as she squeezed her eyes closed. Her whole body slumped forward when she talked again. “Yeah, yeah, ok,” Emma muttered quickly. “We can do tomorrow.”  
  
And then she hung up the phone, shoulders moving up and down as she tried to catch her breath. Her hand was shaking.

“Swan?” Killian asked, taking a cautious step towards her.

“I need shoes,” she said, tugging on the end of her hair, twisting it around one finger.

“What?”  
  
“I need shoes. I can’t wear the heels. My feet are all cut up.” She started moving around the room again, grabbing things Killian wasn’t entirely sure she’d brought with her the night before, stuffing them in a bag she’d left there the weekend before.

He reached out quickly when she passed by him, grabbing her fingers and pulling her up short again. Emma glared at him, but he just tightened his grip. “What are you doing?”  
  
“Leaving.”  
  
“What? Why?”  
  
“I can’t be here right now.”

She tried to pull away, but for a guy with one hand, Killian was still strong enough to keep her rooted to the spot, fingers wrapping all the way around her wrist until the tip of his middle finger hit against his thumb. “Talk to me,” he said, repeating his words from earlier. “What was that all about?”  
  
“They took me off the air.”  
  
The building could have been crashing down around him and Killian was positive he wouldn't have noticed, eyes focused entirely on Emma and the way her whole body seemed to droop when she spoke.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “Why?”  
  
“You’re fucking kidding me, right?”

Killian pulled his hand away like he’d been burned, the question searing across his mind like some sort of relationship-ruining red-hot poker. “What did Zelena say?”

Emma took a deep breath, wrapping her arms around her waist. “That she didn’t think it was _right_ to put the show on the air, all things considered. It, apparently, took some effort to reorganize an entire network schedule with just a few hours to spare, but apparently they’ve got plenty of Iron Chef reruns backlogged for moments just like this.”  
  
She glared at him again and it would have surprised him if his whole body wasn’t systematically shutting down. “I’m sorry,” he said softly and Emma laughed.

“Sure.”  
  
“Emma.”  
  
She looked up at him when he used her name – the most he’d done that since he’d met her and that probably meant a lot more than he was willing to analyze right then. “I can’t do this right now,” she said quickly, turning to yank her phone charger out of the wall.

“Can’t do what?”  
  
Emma waved her hands towards him – still without a shirt or anything where his left hand was supposed to be. “This,” she repeated. Realization struck him quickly and painfully and it felt like his knees were giving out.

“Swan.”  
  
“No, no,” she muttered, sliding into the jacket they’d left in the corner of his room when they’d stumbled in the night before. “Don’t do that. I can’t do this right now.”

“This isn’t going to change anything. You got your show back, you can do it again. I’ll talk to Zelena if you want. She was talking about doing stuff together post all-star anyway. That’s what we were talking about, by the way. I didn’t tell you that either. But this isn’t the end, Swan. We can fix this.”  
  
Emma hefted the bag in her hand over her shoulder and shook her head simply, tears pricking the corner of her eyes again. “No,” she said softly. “I’m going to fix this. You’re not going to do anything.”  
  
“Don’t do that, Swan,” Killian said quickly, moving into her space before she had a chance to push him away. “Don’t put those walls back up again. This doesn’t change anything.”  
  
“See, that’s where you’re wrong. Because it has always been about the food for me. It’s the only thing that has made me _anything_ and losing that would be the end of everything. I shouldn’t have done this.”

“Done what?”  
  
“I knew this would happen. I knew it.” She was rambling and muttering words in the direction of their feet, one hand holding her heels with the other gripped around her bag tightly. “I thought this might have been different.”  
  
The building was absolutely collapsing. That was the only explanation for the rushing in his ears and the way it felt like he was actually falling into the floor.

“It is,” Killian said, trying to put every single emotion he had felt for Emma Swan into two single words so she would believe him.

She didn’t.

He could see it as soon as she looked at him.  
  
“It’s not. It’s just another set-up.” Emma took a step back, wincing a bit as she slid her feet into her heels. “I can’t lose this show,” she continued, hand resting on the handle of the bedroom door. “That was the only reason I did all-stars anyway. I let myself get distracted and I shouldn’t have. That changes now.”

She waited half a moment for him to respond, sighing softly when he didn’t. “I’ve got to go,” she said, swinging open the door and walking out before he could come up with a single word.

And the walls were higher than ever before, leaving Killian on the outside looking in, an empty feeling in the middle of his chest that he’d never quite felt before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst attack. Times several thousand. They're going to figure this out. I live in a happily ever after kind of world, so this'll work, it'll just take a few chapters. What even are words? There are lots of them. 
> 
> Thank you for every click, comment and kudos - every single one of them blows my mind and puts a smile on my face. As does @laurenorder, who makes this so much better. 
> 
> Come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/tagged/ootfp


	34. Chapter 34

They didn’t put her back on air the next week either. 

And Emma could barely even look at her own kitchen, let alone the network one in the days after she’d walked out of Killian’s apartment, shoes cutting into the back of her heels like some sort of sign she didn’t particularly need. 

Everything hurt enough already – she didn’t need cut up feet to remind her of that. 

Zelena and Ruby were a whirlwind in the days after the magazine hit stands, firing assistants that turned out to be anonymous sources and sending out press releases and statements and promises that the network supported Emma Swan, no matter what she’d done in the past. 

They just didn’t support her enough to put her show back on the air. 

“We’ve just got to let it die down a little bit,” Ruby told on her Thursday, four days after the story had hit and Emma had stopped talking to Killian. 

Not like she was counting. 

That would have been absurd. 

It was, also, at least the tenth time Ruby had promised her that.  _ Let it die down. _  Like a story about being the fall for a boyfriend and an eight-month stint in jail and a son that was, suddenly, being asked about his mother’s criminal past at school would just die down. 

Emma was going stir crazy, the frustration of it all buzzing just beneath her fingers. She wanted to fix it – do something and protect her kid, but she couldn’t figure out what that something was. And it was driving her nuts. 

Mary Margaret, as expected, was an endless source of enthusiasm and optimism and a determination to do whatever Emma asked of her – which was made slightly more difficult by the fact that she was eight months pregnant and David probably would have murdered Emma if she actually asked for anything. 

So she brought Henry to and from school herself, riding the train every morning despite his assurances that he could  _ take the subway on his own _ and met him a block away every afternoon, walking back downtown together, hot chocolate in hand as she answered every single one of his questions. 

And he had a lot. 

They ranged from the expected –  _ why didn’t you tell me _ and  _ where is my dad now _ – to the more surprising –  _ did you learn how to pick locks while you were in jail? _

He asked about the show and the next all-star taping and what would happen when that was finished. She didn’t have an answer to that. 

Mostly because she’d stormed out of that meeting before they’d really gotten to that part of the conversation on Monday afternoon, Zelena’s suggestion –  _ demand _ – that she keep working with Killian to keep up ratings sounding a bit like a sentence Emma wasn’t remotely ready to serve. So, she did what she did best, she left, walked right out of the office with a quick  _ I’m not doing that _ and didn’t turn around when the head of the network shouted her name at her back. 

Ruby had tried to bring up it nearly as many times as she’d promised that this would all die down, but Emma had, at least, been resolute in that. 

She wasn’t working with Killian Jones again. 

This all-star thing would end – she was doing her best to ignore the filming slated for late next week – and she wouldn’t have to see him again. 

And that shouldn’t have made her whole body ache. 

Somewhere deep in the back of her mind, where that tiny rational part of her still existed, Emma understood. She’d understood that morning until her phone had rung and everything changed and she fell into the vaguely bitter orphan she still was in the pit of her stomach, the one who'd been secretly waiting for Killian Jones to mess up and walk away so she'd have an excuse to blame everything on. 

Except he hadn’t walked away. 

She had. 

Again. 

Henry, for his part, hadn’t asked about Killian or the wedding or why they hadn’t gone to The Jolly Roger in nearly a week. Emma appreciated it. 

It was closing in on three in the afternoon and she pushed herself off the couch she’d taken up residence on over the last few days, crossing her living room in a few quick steps to grab her coat and force her feet into shoes that wouldn’t help the cuts that still hadn’t healed on the back of her feet. 

She swung the door open quickly, grabbing her keys off the hook nearby as she moved and made to take a step into the hallway, but stopped short – eyes going wide when she nearly collided with her brother.

“What are you doing here?” Emma asked, voice rough in her throat. 

David stared evenly at her – a look he’d perfected during her slightly more rebellious teenage years – and stepped towards her, forcing Emma back into her apartment. He closed the door without a word, pulling the keys out of her hand and putting them back on the hook. 

And then he took his shoes off. 

“What the fuck, David?” Emma pressed, staring at him as he shrugged out of his department-mandated jacket. “Shouldn’t you be out patrolling streets or something?”

“I just got off,” he said, finally answering her. He didn’t stand still for long though, just kept walking further into her apartment and sinking onto the far edge of the couch. “You going to come sit down or you going to just stand there?”  
  
“I have to go get Henry.”

“Ruby’s doing it. And she’s bringing him to our apartment. Mary Margaret’s thrilled. She’s making a whole menu of after-school snacks. We’re going to go over there when we’re done here. Henry’s already demanded pizza.”  
  
Emma raised one eyebrow, taking a step back into the living room. She didn’t take her jacket off. “You’re letting her stand up on her own? Isn’t that awfully dangerous?”

David didn’t miss a beat, just grinned at her and leaned farther back into the couch, propping his feet up on top of the coffee table in front of him. “You know, I’m getting a little bit lackadaisical about that. And I know I was going overboard. It’s almost like people change.”

He had about as much tact as blunt force trauma and Emma crossed her arms tightly across her chest, waiting for this to be over with. 

She wasn’t in the mood for a lesson. 

“Sit down, Em,” David said, sounding every bit the role of cliché older brother. Emma huffed slightly, a mixture between a groan and belligerent disagreement that was her role as little sister. He just kept grinning at her, widening his eyes slightly and nodding towards the other end of the couch. 

It took five seconds for her to give in – just like he knew it would.

Emma sank into the cushions of her couch, grabbing one of the pillows nearby and hugging it close to her chest. “You might want to take your jacket off for this one,” David suggested. “Ruby will kill me if I let her star overheat because she refused to take her coat off.”  
  
“Haven’t you heard? I’m not the star anymore. I’m tabloid fodder.” David hummed in the back of his throat – a middle-of-the-road response that only served to irritate her more. “What are you doing here?” Emma asked sharply and the smile fell off her brother’s face immediately. “For real, because I don’t need some sort of intervention.”

“Don’t interventions usually involve a whole group of people? I’m the only one here.”  
  
“I’m sure you’d figure a way around that.”  
  
“Yeah, probably,” David agreed, lower lip pressed out thoughtfully. “If it helped you.”

Emma sighed, tugging her legs up so the pillow was smashed in between her body, resting her chin on the fabric. “Ok,” she said slowly. “So if this isn’t an intervention, what is it exactly? You’ve clearly got some sort of plan.”   
  
“I want to talk.”    
  
“About?” He leveled her with  _ that _ look again and Emma rolled her eyes so hard they actually hurt. “I don’t want to talk about that,” she muttered, mostly into the pillow. 

“Too bad.”  
  
And, she supposed, there was a first time for everything because, most of the time, David did whatever she wanted, never pushed, never poked or prodded or demanded answers out of her. He treated Emma like the scared animal she, sometimes, still was and let her figure things out on her own time, an unquestioning and unwavering source of support. 

“What?” Emma asked, voice cracking over the four letters. 

David’s face softened a bit and he smiled at her, leaning forward a few inches to grab her hand out of its vice-like grip on the pillow. “We’re talking about this. Right now. Until you decide you’re going to be ok.”  
  
“I am ok.”  
  
“Ohhh,” David laughed, “couldn’t even make it sound like a good lie there could you?”  
  
She couldn’t. And she wasn’t ok. 

At all. 

She was upset and hurt and frustrated. And she shouldn’t have walked out of his apartment. Or she should have gone back. Or at least answered the dozen calls she’d immediately ignored in the two days after she’d walked out of his apartment.

That was days ago now. 

And he hadn’t called in two days.  

But Emma wasn’t sure what she’d say even if she did answer – too disappointed to think of a single world when she saw his name flash across her phone screen. So she didn’t say anything. And she never called him back. 

She sat still instead, bordering dangerously close to wallowing and maybe a bit of stewing thrown in for good measure. 

“What do you want me to say? Exactly?” Emma asked, yanking on the zipper on the side of the pillow, pulling it back and forth quickly, an outlet for the emotions surging through every inch of her skin. 

“Have you actually talked to him?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Of course not.”  
  
“A very pointed opinion.”  
  
David shrugged, but his eyes narrowed and his lips pressed together tightly as he grabbed the pillow out of her hands, tossing it in front of the couch. “I’m going to tell you something and I need you to not completely freak out, alright?” Emma nodded. “I knew.”

“Knew what?”

“About the expansion deal and Gold.”

She didn’t say anything, but Emma knew her face was practically a portrait of every emotion and feeling rushing through her brain. David grimaced, breathing heavily and swinging his feet off the coffee table. “See,” he said, doing his best to keep his voice light. “This is the freakout I was trying to avoid.”  
  
“When? When did you know?”  
  
“I was there when he told Gold.”

And that wasn’t fair at all – Emma couldn’t deal with being bombarded by secrets and knowledge and some sort of relationship she wasn’t aware her brother and boyfriend had. Oh. That was the first time she’d thought of him like that in the last five days and she wondered, albeit a little belatedly, if that was still true. 

Fuck. 

She wanted it to still be true. 

“But wasn’t that at the warehouse?” Emma asked, fingers itching to do something now that she didn’t have the pillow. She settled for tapping out a quick rhythm on her knee. “That’s in Brooklyn.”

“I have a car. And a GPS. You knew I went there.”

“When did you go out there again?”  
  
“Not again. Weeks ago. I went out there to apologize and tell him to come to Christmas and Gold was there. I knew who he was because of the background check. He’s not a good guy, Em.”  
  
“Yeah, I’m kind of realizing that,” she mumbled, but her mind was racing, trying to place dates and conversations. 

Before Christmas. 

David had gone out there before Christmas and Gold was there and that must have been when he had done it. 

Before Christmas. 

“Emma?” David asked, snapping her out of her silent thought process. “What are you thinking?”  
  
“Gold was there then? When you went?” David nodded, eyes asking the questions he didn’t actually put a voice to, and Emma’s whole body moved with the effort of her sigh. “He did it then. He told Gold then.”  
  
“Yeah, he did,” David confirmed, staring at her cautiously. “I’m going to say something else,” he continued, holding his hands up like he was trying to make sure she didn’t pounce. Emma raised her eyebrows and he seemed take that as acceptance – or something. 

“I know why you’re mad,” he said and Emma opened her mouth to object or argue, but David shook his head and her jaw snapped shut painfully. “And I know that you’re more disappointed than mad because you feel like you’ve been set up again, but that’s not what happened. It isn’t. It was incredibly stupid, but it wasn’t a set-up and I don’t think you should run away from something that’s made you so happy.”

Emma twisted her lips, scrunching her nose and David actually laughed, chuckling softly at the look on her face and they could have been in Storybrooke because it felt like two decades earlier and whispered promises to  _ take care of each other, no matter what _ spoken on the living room couch after Ruth had gone to bed.

“That was impressively on point,” Emma mumbled, voice distorted with her nose still scrunched up.

David narrowed his eyes and his smile was half on his face and half in her memory. “Almost like I know you,” he said, leaning forward to grab her hand and squeeze tightly. “He does too, you know. For whatever that’s worth.”

A lot. It was worth a lot. 

Her head was spinning – an impressive feat considering she was still sitting in the corner of her couch. Emma tried to race back through a conversation she’d spent the better part of the last few days decidedly ignoring, brushing off David’s muttered questions as she squeezed her eyes shut in concentration. 

Ok. There were facts. She knew the facts. 

Killian told her the facts. God, what were they? When did he say he told Gold? She wasn’t sure. She was an idiot. 

She should have listened better. 

She’d been too busy absolutely convinced he had set her up for some giant fall – like he was capable of doing anything except supporting her, that stupid, encouraging smile flashing in front of her still-closed eyes. 

She wasn’t just an idiot – she was the biggest idiot. 

“Em?” David asked and she felt the couch shift a bit as he leaned towards her. “You still with me?”  
  
She nodded, the jerky movement making her neck crack. “It was before Christmas?” 

“Like two days before.”  
  
Fuck. 

Two days before Christmas was nearly three weeks before they filmed Cupcake Wars – he’d told Gold nearly three weeks before he’d lost on purpose. And nearly two  _ months _ before the moment in the hallway. 

Two days before Christmas he'd decided she was  _ enough  _ and that wasn't nearly as surprising as it should have been - that rational part of her mind stepping into the metaphorical spotlight with ease and screaming  _ He loves you!  _ into her inner ear. 

“You know I asked him why he did it,” David continued and Emma hadn’t been expecting that.  
  
“What?”  
  
David sighed, grabbing the pillow back off the floor and there was, clearly, something to be said for growing up in the same house because neither one of them seemed capable of sitting still. “I knew who Gold was. And I saw him storm out of the warehouse and I’m a nosy, overly-curious guy by nature.” He paused dramatically to give Emma the chance to laugh at his poor attempt at a joke – she didn’t. “Anyway,” he said pointedly. “I asked about Gold and why he was there and what the deal was and Killian told me.”  
  
“Just like that?”  
  
He shrugged. “It took a bit of questioning, but I’m nothing if not persistent.” Emma did laugh at that, but it was a more sarcastic sound than David was clearly hoping for. “And he told me about the deal they made and the money cut and that he told Gold he wanted out of it. Because of you.”

David’s eyes widened meaningfully on the final sentence, head tilting to the side in a way that made Emma want to roll her eyes again. “Now,” he added, “you’re holed up in this apartment, apparently not feeding Henry actual food anymore or going into the office to try and save your show, because that decision backfired completely on him. And that’s dumb.”  
  
“Dumb?” Emma repeated skeptically. “What are you thirteen?”  
  
“No, your kid is and that’s the word he used.”  
  
“He’s only just thirteen,” Emma mumbled. “Barely counts.”  
  
“He’s not going to tell you what he thinks, but he’s told me and he thinks you’re being dumb. I tend to agree.”  
  
Emma leaned forward, chin colliding with her knees almost painfully, and squeezed her eyes shut again. 

She was being dumb. 

She just couldn’t lose her show. 

And, somehow, it felt like she already had. 

That was probably because she refused to go into the network offices again. 

“Killian should have told you,” David said and she had to admire his tenacity, even if it was bordering on annoying. He wouldn’t stop talking. “He knew that in December and I’m  _ sure  _ he knows it now, but he didn’t think it was going to end up like this. He should have. Again. But his intentions, at least, were good.”

“I didn’t think you were such a fan,” Emma said, trying to keep her voice light. It didn’t work. She knew it didn’t work. So did David.

These were exactly the kind of emotions she’d been trying to avoid. 

Because these kinds of emotions were vaguely terrifying and all-encompassing and overwhelming. There was that word again. 

“He’s trying to fix it,” David argued. “You’re the one being impossibly stubborn.”  
  
“There’s not anything to fix.”  
  
“You’ll get your show back on. Ruby said…”  
  
“I know what Ruby said,” Emma cut in, ignoring David’s glare when she interrupted him. “I know. I know.”  
  
“But?”  
  
“But none of this would have happened if he just talked to me.”  
  
“I’m not disagreeing with you and I’m not trying to tell you that your frustration isn’t unwarranted. It is. Everyone thinks that.”  
  
“But?” Emma asked, repeating his question back to him and earning a vaguely amused grin out of it. 

“But,” David said intently, “this is not the end of the world. And this does not change the fact that you are one hell of a chef. And that people want to watch your show.”

Emma did her best to take a deep breath – something that had become increasingly difficult since she’d walked out of Killian’s apartment nearly a week before – and shook her head. Stubborn until the very end. 

“No one wants to watch a convict cook fancy French food on Sunday mornings,” she muttered into her knees, lips moving across the leggings she was wearing. 

“Have you actually talked to Ruby?” She shook her head and David groaned loudly. “People have been asking where the show was. There was apparently some movement on messages boards or something, I don’t know, Ruby used a lot of technical terms that went over my head, but it seemed like people do want to watch you cook fancy French food on Sunday mornings and they’re mad when they can’t.”  
  
Emma blinked, teeth digging tightly into her lower lip. “That’s not true.”  
  
“Are you getting paid by the argument or just trying to frustrate me?”  
  
“Neither.”  
  
“I’m not lying to you, Em. And neither is Ruby. Or Killian, for that matter.”

Her lungs hurt – so did several other major organs, but saying those kinds of things out loud were ridiculous and sentimental. 

“He didn’t set you up,” David muttered. Emma’s teeth slipped against the inside of her lip, biting down and drawing blood and there was some kind of metaphor there. “He was trying to help. I’m sure he told you that.”  
  
“He did.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“And I walked out.”  
  
David shook his head, a small, sad smile on his face as he looked at her. “You took your necklace off,” he said, voice low and practically bursting with unspoken meaning. 

“Weeks ago.”  
  
He nodded once, pushing himself off the couch and holding his hand out to Emma and she was, suddenly, twelve years old, freezing cold in the alley behind Filene’s Basement and David Nolan was, still, her hero. 

She took his hand without a second thought, letting him pull her up, one arm wrapped tightly around her, the other cupping the back of his head as he kissed the top of her head. “You’re more than the food, Em,” he whispered and she could feel her tears stain his uniform just underneath her cheek. “And no matter what happens, you’re still important to a lot of people. Especially him.”  
  
And, somewhere in the back of her mind, that persistently rational voice promised he was right. 

* * *

He couldn’t feel his fingers.

Or his toes. 

Or much of anything if he was being honest – not since she’d walked out of his apartment and hadn’t returned any of his calls. 

He’d called twelve times in two days, like he was some kind of lovesick teenager. 

He was. Absolutely. 

Fuck. 

Killian pressed his heel further into the dirt underneath his feet, pushing his hand into his pocket and tried to focus on the waves and the sound and not the way he hadn’t been able to take a full and deep breath in a little over a week. 

Ruby had called him the day before, requesting –  _ demanding _ – to do something or fix something or  _ stop being such a fucking idiot,  _ but he hardly heard her. It was, after all, not the first time someone had suggested he walk three blocks downtown and show up at Emma’s apartment to try and explain himself. 

He didn’t.

Wouldn’t. 

Couldn't. 

That was probably the better word – he couldn’t do it, couldn’t push her into a corner and make her decide something he wasn’t entirely positive he was ready to hear. 

Because she hadn’t called back and she’d walked out of his apartment and, one vaguely overwhelming declaration of how she’d changed  _ everything  _ later, Killian was slightly terrified he had actually fucked everything up. 

“It’s freezing out here.” 

“What are you doing here?” Killian asked, spinning around quickly, his voice nearly drowned out by the wind.   
  
“You’re very predictable,” Ariel said, sinking down next to him on the bench and shivering for good measure. “And once I realized you weren’t in the kitchen, I figured you had to be somewhere by the water. Battery’s the closest park.”  
  
“What would you have done if I wasn’t here?”  
  
“Probably started systematically searching benches across lower Manhattan.” Killian laughed softly, shaking his head and staring at the small semicircle his heel had left in the dirt. “I heard you lost today.”  
  
He groaned, head rolling back as he slumped down the bench. “How?”  
  
“I think Ruby told Belle who told Will who told me.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“First time for everything, huh?”  
  
“That’s a positive spin on it.”

Regina was going to kill him. He'd never lost Iron Chef in his life and the only reason he had was because he's been too focused on how silent his phone had been in the last week and half a day. 

She was going to kill him. 

And then Robin was going bring him back to life and kill him again. Then they’d probably kill him together, some weird, newlywed project because he’d lost on Iron Chef and gotten Emma’s life story on the cover of a weekly tabloid and cost her her show and, apparently, some sort of feud with Robert Gold. 

It was one hell of a wedding present. 

“They’re back, you know,” Ariel said, like she was reading his mind. “Gina and Robin. Got back like twenty minutes before I left.”  
  
This was a disaster. “Did they say anything?”  
  
Ariel shook her head. “Not about that. Said they had some news though. Something big and important. That’s why they were there. Wanted to tell you in person. I told them you’d run away from your problems again.”  
  
Killian scoffed, scuffing his foot in the ground again and leaving a small cloud of dirt in his wake. “A very specific type of opinion.”  
  
“I’m not wrong.”  
  
She wasn’t. 

She was, actually, far too right. And Killian’s head hurt. 

“So,” Ariel continued without waiting for a response from Killian. “You haven’t talked to her yet?” He shook his head. “You should probably fix that.”  
  
“I called,” he argued. 

“And that’s very easy to ignore. You know I read the story.” Killian’s eyes darted towards Ariel, who stared back, gaze even and eyebrows raised pointedly. “I told you that you should have told her about Gold.”   
  
“This is a hell of a time for an ‘I told you so’ speech, Ari.”    
  
“Well, that’s what you’re getting, so deal with it. I read the story,” she repeated. “She thinks you set her up.”    
  
“I didn’t.”    
  
“I know that. You know that. Emma probably knows that. But I read the story and that’s what happened with this guy, isn’t it? He set her up and she took the fall?”    
  
Killian nodded again. “How’d you figure that out?”    
  
“Smart,” she muttered, tapping the side of her head and grinning at him. “And also Ruby might have told me.”    
  
“Does anyone actually do their jobs anymore?” Killian asked sharply, frustration getting the better of him as he pushed himself off the bench. “Or just stand around as gossip about my relationship with Emma?”    
  
Ariel didn’t blink, just widened her eyes at him, lips twisted – and he knew  _ that  _ look, had seen it a hundred different times when they first started working together and he criticized the way she waitressed. 

He was going to get lectured. 

He didn’t want to get lectured. 

He wanted to see his girlfriend again.

“Yeah, well,” Ariel said evenly, “your relationship with Emma is affecting a lot more people than just the two of you. She hasn’t gone into the network in a week, at least that’s what Ruby said, and she’s not even willing to talk about post all-star stuff. And, _you_ , you’re acting like an asshole who won’t cook.”  
  
“I cook.”  
  
“When was the last time you ran a service?”  
  
It was an easy answer – the Friday before the wedding. He’d most spent the last week barking orders at his staff and letting Eric come up with specials, more intent on single-handedly going through his restaurant’s supply of rum and ignoring Will’s opinion-filled stares every time he’d tapped his glass for a refill. 

It didn’t seem important. 

And that was something entirely unexpected. Because the food had always been the most important thing. It had always been the only thing. 

“Eric’s terrified to talk to you about it,” Ariel added. 

“And you’re not.”  
  
“You’ve never scared me.”  
  
He laughed, the smile on his face unexpected as Ariel gazed up at him, arms crossed tightly over her chest and hair whipping across her face. “What am I supposed to do, Ari?” he asked. “I don’t know what to do.”  
  
“Fight for her.”  
  
And it was so obvious he practically cursed himself for not realizing it. 

He was an idiot – who needed to get back in his kitchen and fix this. He could fix this. 

“Robin will understand,” Ariel said softly, voice nearly caught up in the sound of the waves and the wind and the way his heart was echoing in his ears. 

“You’re some kind of mind reader, aren’t you?” Killian asked. 

Ariel shrugged. “I’ve just spent enough time around you to know what you’re thinking. And I also know that Robin will understand. He felt guilty enough before. He’s going to feel horrible now. Gina will understand too.”  
  
“You think?”  
  
“I know.” Killian nodded slowly, fingers rubbing into the back of his wrist as he pressed his tongue into the side of his cheek. Ariel narrowed her eyes quickly, like she’d just been struck with some sort of realization she wasn’t entirely expecting, practically leaping off the bench and smacking his shoulder – hard. 

“Jeez, Ari,” he mumbled. “Relax.”  
  
“You did it already didn’t you?”

He nodded again. “On Monday afternoon.”  
  
“And you didn’t say anything? Asshole! Goddamnit. I thought you weren’t doing anything.”

“I wasn’t cooking, there’s a difference.”  
  
Ariel groaned, eyes shooting skyward in some sort of silent plea to the clouds and Killian scoffed under his breath again. 

He’d called in between calls eight and nine to Emma, demanding a meeting at the warehouse and a face-to-face with Gold and he hadn’t even tried to keep the anger out of his voice on the phone, speaking with some assistant who guaranteed the real estate mogul would be there that afternoon. 

And he was, leaning on a cane with a smug smile on his face, just outside the door that Marco had finally installed. “Mr. Jones,” Gold said, voice crawling across Killian’s skin and up his spine and making the urge to punch him that much stronger. “What can I do for you that couldn’t be done on the phone.”  
  
“Why?” he asked simply. 

“I’m afraid I don’t understand the question.”  
  
“Why did you do it? Why go after Emma?”  
  
“I have no idea what you’re talking about?”  
  
Killian sighed, tongue darting over his suddenly-dry lips as he tried to keep his breathing level and an assault charge off his record. “You do,” he argued. “But that’s fine. You don’t have to actually admit to anything. Doesn’t change the facts. And one of those facts is that we’re done. Completely.”  
  
Gold smiled slowly, baring his teeth as he traced a line with the tip of his cane. “We have a contract that says otherwise.”  
  
“Fine. That’s fine. I’ll pay. But I’m not moving the Jolly out here. And you can go fuck yourself.”  
  
Gold’s eyes flashed and his smile faltered for half a moment before he stood up straighter, staring at Killian appraisingly. “Plus the cost of the refurb. After all, that was part of the other deal.”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
“You’ve got that kind of money?”

“That’s not really your problem.”  
  
“I just want to make sure I get paid, Mr. Jones. If I’m going to lose out on The Jolly in Gowanus, then I want to ensure there’s some sort of compensation.”

“You’ll get paid,” Killian promised. “And then I’m fucking selling the goddamn building to the first person who wants it.”

It wasn’t going to be easy – and Robin would probably kill him, muttering something about the number of pop-up shops and meals they’d have to make in order to make up for this, but it would be worth it. 

Emma was worth it. 

“I can’t say I’m not disappointed, Mr. Jones,” Gold continued. “I had high hopes for you and The Jolly Roger out here. I thought we’d both be able to accomplish something together.”  
  
“That changed as soon as you ran that story.”  
  
“I didn’t run a thing. I’m in the real estate business. That’s hardly related to those tacky magazines they sell on the corner.”  
  
“Of course.”

Gold nodded once, still smiling at Killian as he brushed by him towards the car that was waiting a few feet away. He swung open the door, turning back towards Killian quickly. “You’re making a mistake, Mr. Jones,” he said softly. 

“I don’t think so.”  
  
And he didn’t. 

Ariel was staring at him, mouth hanging open as soon as he finished recounting the story, shaking her hair out of her eyes impatiently. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me that,” she said. “Did you tell Emma?”  
  
“I haven’t talked to Emma, Ari,” he said slowly. “That’s why you’re out here.”  
  
“Oh, right, right. Jeez.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“You just gave up The Jolly, like that?”  
  
“Just like that.”  
  
“Jeez.” Killian shrugged, not entirely sure what to say. Ariel sitting back down, spine straight as she pressed her lips together tightly before talking. “You love her that much?” she asked and he blinked once, taken aback by the question. 

He shouldn’t have been. 

Ariel was nothing if not direct. 

“Yeah,” he said simply. “I do.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
His chest heaved with the force of his sigh and he felt like he’d taken a deep breath for the first time. “You’re not mad?” he asked. “In the realm of things affecting other things, this kind of falls right on your doorstep.”  
  
“Yeah, I knew you were going to ask Eric,” Ariel said and there was a note of disappointment in her voice that seemed to cut straight into Killian. “But the three of us will figure it out.”

Her eyes darted up towards him, one side of her mouth ticking up at his expression. “What?” he rasped out, throat suddenly very dry.

“Three,” Ariel muttered, pointing at her stomach.

Killian’s laugh was bordering a bit on manic, limbs shaking as he lunged forward and grabbed her quickly, yanking her up and tugging her into a hug. “When?” he asked, feeling her body shake against his with her own laughter. “When did you know?”  
  
“A little after Thanksgiving,” Ariel said, brushing tears away from her cheeks. 

“Ari! That was months ago.”  
  
“You’re not supposed to tell anybody in the first couple of weeks.” He nodded slowly and his own eyes felt glossy and Ariel was smiling broadly at him, just a few inches away with her hands still wrapped around his body. “And you’ve been kind of busy.”  
  
“Not too busy for that,” he argued, the muscles in his face hurting from their sudden overuse. 

“I just…” She trailed off at the end of the sentence and that was incredibly unlike her, her usual to-the-point bravado shaking just a bit. 

“What?”

“I know you,” she said slowly. “And I know what you want and I know what you think you don't deserve and you  _ do _ . Times ten. I don't know. I didn't want to lord this over you. It's the same reason Will never brought Belle to The Jolly.” 

His eyes stung, but he wasn't certain if that was from the sentiment or the wind or the fact that he hadn't actually blinked in what felt like a half an hour. 

It was probably the sentiment. 

And that family he seemed to have stumbled into - one he desperately wanted Emma Swan to be a part of, even if that was pushing just a little bit.

Ariel’s body sagged a bit against him and he landed squarely in _overprotective_ far quicker than he would have expected. “Should you even be out here?” he asked. “It’s freezing.”  
  
“I wasn’t planning on camping out here. I think we can cope for a couple of minutes. I wanted to make sure you were going to be ok.”  
  
“I’ll be fine,” Killian answered quickly, far too quickly to actually make it sound like it wasn’t the lie it was. 

“Talk to her.”  
  
“It’s not for lack of trying, Ari.”  
  
She sighed, resting her head against his shoulder. “I know. But she deserves to know about The Jolly.”  
  
Killian shook his head as soon as the words were out of her mouth. “No, no, no,” he mumbled. “I don’t want her to know about that. She’ll blame herself or something and she shouldn’t.”

“It’s about her though.”  
  
“And she doesn’t need to feel guilty over anything else.”

“You’re impossibly stubborn, you know that?”

“At least I’m consistent.”  
  
Ariel huffed out her very obvious disappointment and smacked her hand across the front of Killian’s chest again. He felt his phone buzz in his pocket, the vibration shooting through his system like an alarm. 

Ruby. It was Ruby. Again. And while her demands to talk to Emma had fallen on deaf ears, Killian had a counter-offer. Or at least part of one. 

There was a plan somewhere in the back of his mind, a determination that hadn't really been there when he first sat down on this bench an hour before. 

He didn't tell Ariel that. She would have been incorrigible. 

“When do you film again?”

“Friday.”  
  
“And you think you’re going to talk to her before then?”  
  
“Probably not.”  
  
She rolled her eyes – opinion practically smacking him in the face as hard as her hand had hit her jacket. “Idiot.”

The wind blew again and Ariel’s hair flew across Killian’s face, strands smacking against his cheeks and that felt like some kind of sign.   
“Come on,” he said, tugging her away from the bench and back towards the street a few feet away. “Let’s not add Eric to the list of people ready to kill me for my poor decision-making skills.”

Ariel rolled her eyes again, but didn’t object, letting him direct her back into the always-there crowd of tourists lining up for boats to Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty. 

Four more days. 

He just had to last three more days. 

And then they’d film again and Emma would have to at least look at him. 

He could work with that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Family interventions! And a light at the end of the tunnel. We're climbing our way out of this angst hole and, now, it's time to film Grocery Games. Naturally. As always, I can't thank y'all enough for your response to this story. It blows my mind and makes me smile and all sorts of cliche nonsense. 
> 
> Come flail with me on Tumblr if you're down: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	35. Chapter 35

“I need to talk to you.”  
  
“I’m kind of in the middle of something here, Ruby,” Emma said, muttering out the words through barely-moving lips so she wouldn’t frustrate the human being currently trying to put makeup on her face. 

“You’re done now.” Ruby glanced at the makeup artist, leveling her with a look that bartered no debate. “She’s done now.”  
  
She didn’t even wait for Emma to argue, just grabbed her hand, pulling her forcefully out of the chair and out into the hallway, staring at her with a look that was somewhere in between anxiety and excitement. 

Ruby tightened her arms across her chest, narrowing her eyes at Emma – it felt a bit like a threat. “What’s your problem?” Emma spat, not even trying to keep the frustration out of her voice. 

She was frustrated

And tired. 

Exhausted. 

She was frustrated and exhausted and she probably should have talked to Ruby before walking into the network offices to film a show that was actually based on buying groceries. She should have talked to Killian too. 

There were a lot of things Emma probably should have done – and she’d considered all of them, alternating from her couch and a one-man intervention with her brother, to the couch in David and Mary Margaret’s apartment, holed up in the corner with a cup of hot chocolate in her hand and a sympathetic smile on her sister-in-law’s face. 

It was, for all intents and purposes, the same message David had tried to press into her brain earlier that afternoon, but Mary Margaret was a bit softer and easier and not quite as up front with the use of the word  _ stupid. _

So as soon as Henry had requested ice cream, David had volunteered to take him and Mary Margaret had made hot chocolate, forcing it into Emma’s hand with a word and an encouraging nod and Emma had cried. 

For at least five minutes. 

And she couldn’t remember the last time she’d done that. 

It meant something. 

“I’ve got a plan,” Ruby said, matching Emma tone for tone and she should have expected that. It was her show as much as it was Emma’s. “And you’re not going to like it and I absolutely don’t care. This is going to work.”  
  
Emma’s eyes widened quickly, breath catching in her throat just a bit as she waited for Ruby to continue. “We’re doing an interview,” Ruby said. 

“What?”  
  
She was right – Emma didn’t like it. She hated it. 

Ruby nodded deftly. “Hear me out,” she said, holding her hands up lightly, but her foot was tapping and the impatience was practically wafting off her. “I know you don’t want to talk and I get it, but if you looked at the response, you’d also get it. People aren’t upset. They’re impressed. You’re some kind of hero on the internet right now.”  
  
“What?”

Ruby sighed dramatically, tilting one eyebrow up as Emma repeated herself. “Think about it, Emma. You’ve completely rebuilt your life. You took a shitty situation, the  _ shittiest  _ situation and you made yourself a TV star. It’s the perfect redemption story. People are eating it up. You talk about it a little bit on the record and you’ll be back on the air in no time.”

Emma considered that for a moment and, as much as she hated it, she couldn’t figure out a way to disagree. 

It made sense. 

“People like you,” Ruby continued, oblivious to everything that was going on in Emma’s head. “They’ve always liked you and now they like you even more. Just, do me a favor, ok? And think about it? I’m not asking you to bring Henry on the show or anything except for ten minutes with a reporter. That’s it.”   
Emma nodded slowly, back pressed up painfully against the wall behind her. “What about the rest of it?” she asked. 

Ruby’s eyebrows fell quickly, lips tilting down in confusion. “You’ve lost me. What rest of it?”  
  
“There was another part of the story. It wasn’t just about the jail time.”  
  
Killian. 

She was asking about Killian and it only took half a second for Ruby to understand, mouth forming a perfect ‘o’ when it hit her. And there was a tinge of sadness in her smile before she answered the question Emma hadn’t really asked. 

“That’s up to you, Em,” she said softly. “But for what it’s worth, I think you should talk to him. Soon.”

The heels practically running down the hallway stopped Emma from answering – or possibly diving face first back into a cesspool of emotion and want – nearly making her fall over when she spun around to put a face to the sound. 

“Regina’s losing her mind,” Anna said quickly, trying to catch her breath as she stared at Emma and Ruby. “You guys were supposed to be on set two minutes ago.”  
  
“Jeez,” Ruby mumbled. “Tell her to relax.”  
  
“She’s a little on edge.”  
  
“Yeah, I can imagine.”  
  
And so could Emma – because she was just as much on edge. Or possibly over it. Dangling there. Several thousand feet above the ground and totally unprepared for impact. And if she felt half the way Emma did, or had to deal with Killian the way Ruby had to deal with her, it was a more than understandable frustration. 

“We’ll be right there,” Emma said and Anna nodded once, darting back down the hallway. Ruby glanced speculatively at Emma and she just shrugged in response. 

“You going to be ok?” she asked, voice finally losing that bite as she fell back into friend, eyes softening just a bit. 

“Yeah. Probably. Maybe after this interview.”  
  
Ruby nearly fell over, body colliding with the side of the door that led onto set and Emma appreciated that for a moment, grabbing an apron from the outstretched hand of an assistant, tying it tightly around her waist and trying to keep her steps measured as she moved towards her station. 

Everything had changed. 

And it wasn’t just this story or the rumors or her show. 

It was what she hadn’t told anyone else – David or Mary Margaret or Ruby or Killian. Especially Killian – the words echoing in her brain ever since he’d said them and she hadn’t answered. He had changed everything. 

It felt as if every eye on set turned to her when she stopped walking, hands pressed flat against the counter as she took a deep breath through her nose. 

They hadn’t put her next to him – his station on the other side of Belle’s to her right – but Emma knew he was looking at her, could feel his eyes on the side of her face and she didn’t turn. Film first. She had to film first. 

And then she’d talk to him. 

She’d tell him. 

She’d fix it. 

Regina was barking out orders, explaining rules Emma was only vaguely aware of and entirely uninterested in. She bit the side of her tongue tightly, running through all the reasons she absolutely could not turn to her right and meet Killian’s gaze. 

Her fingers tapped nervously on the formica and now a different voice was talking – Jefferson Hatter, an explanation in the back of her mind provided, host of the show, and Emma tried to focus on that. “You’ll have ten minutes to shop,” he said. “But you’ll be on a budget. $20 dollars for the entire meal. You go over and you’ll have your entire cart confiscated which, you know, will make it just a bit challenging to actually cook a meal. So I hope you all can do some basic math in your head. I want bolognese. Ten minutes to shop, thirty minutes to cook, $20. And, go!”  
  
An air horn sounded from somewhere in the back corner of the set and Emma darted forward, cutting in front of a slightly stunned Graham who, she was certain, had never set foot in a grocery store in his life. 

And for as much as she wasn’t listening and entirely preoccupied with half a dozen other things, Emma was more confident in this challenge than she had been throughout the entire, stupid competition – memories of shopping with a two-year-old strapped to her chest and a limited list of options clutched in her hand flashing in front of her eyes. 

Olive oil, garlic, beef, tomatoes, basil, parsley, pasta, romano. 

No, she thought quickly, get rid of the basil and the parsley. Spices were expensive and unnecessary. 

Salt and pepper. She needed salt and pepper. 

God, they even had to use a cart – the theme of this show was absurd. Emma tried to maneuver the thing around the corner of an aisle, wheels scraping painfully on the floor, the noise making her squeeze her eyes shut and that was a mistake. 

She heard the sound of colliding carts before she felt it, arms shaking a bit as they desperately tried to hold on to her cart. 

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Emma mumbled, taking a step back and yanking the cart with her. And of course it was him. 

Whatever, world. 

“It’s fine, Swan,” Killian said softly, eyes widening when the endearment fell out of his mouth, like he wasn’t sure if that was allowed. 

Fuck. 

She had fucked up. 

Cook first. She had to cook first and then they could talk. 

Emma nodded slowly, lips parted just a bit and she hadn’t expected the reaction to be that strong – the slow pull in her gut making her want to knock both of their carts out the way, push him up against one of these aisle and kiss him senseless. He was absolutely unfairly good looking. And staring at her like...she couldn’t think that. 

_ Like she was the goddamn sun. _

There were cameras everywhere. 

“Were your eyes closed?” he asked softly, one side of his mouth tilting up. She shrugged.  _ God, say something back. _  “You do that a lot, don’t you? Like it’s all instinctual.”  
  
She shrugged again and a voice called  _ one minute _ and they stared at each other over carts chock-full of inexpensive Italian food for half a moment, matching nervous smiles on their faces and Emma tugged on the bottom of her hair. 

His smile widened. 

“We should, uh, probably go check out,” Emma said. “Or whatever they call it on this stupid show.”   
  
“It is kind of ridiculous isn’t it?”    
  
Emma nodded again – like she’d lost complete control of all of the muscles in her neck – fingers loosening their grip on her cart. “Although, it will be vaguely entertaining to watch Graham try and cook bolognese. That’s worth showing up for alone.”    
Killian’s eyes flashed and Emma’s stomach flipped and they were absolutely wasting time. She didn’t care. This was the longest minute in the history of the world.  

“Absolutely,” he agreed, nodding towards the mock check-out line a few feet away and Emma took the hint, pushing her cart away from him. 

She heard him follow behind here and that felt like  _ something _ – a lot bigger than this dumb, themed show. 

Eighteen dollars and seventy-two cents. 

Emma was a grocery shopping wizard. Or witch? Why were these things gendered? She shook her head quickly, eyebrows pulled low as she grabbed a pot and a pan and flipped a switch on her oven, which was all very impressive considering she still only had two hands. She chanced a glance two stations over to find Killian shaking something in a frying pan and he must have been able to  _ feel _ her or something because he looked up nearly as soon as her eyes moved towards him and smiled. 

And she was going to win. 

Thirty minutes had never gone by so fast – or with so many stolen glances – and Jefferson was counting down and Emma was dumping food onto plates and trying to figure out some way to make pasta look appealing without just being a mound of food and sauce and meat. 

“Looks good,” Graham muttered, nodding towards Emma’s dish and flashing an encouraging smile at her as Jefferson called out the end of the round and upcoming judging. 

“Thanks,” Emma answered and she’d absolutely tied her apron strings too tight because she couldn’t quite feel her kidneys anymore. “I couldn’t tell you the last time I made bolognese. Probably school.”  
  
Graham shrugged and he was still smiling and somehow they’d made it in front of the judge’s table – Killian’s eyes darting towards hers no less than five times as they crossed from one side of set to the other. “Still,” Graham continued. “You wouldn’t know by looking at it.”

Emma didn’t say anything, not entirely certain where this was going, and stuffed her hands into the pockets of her jeans, resting her weight back on her heels. 

And it went about as well as she expected – Graham’s complete lack of knowledge when it came to Italian cooking doing its job and getting him cut in the first round. This all-star thing hadn’t been to kind to Graham. Emma almost felt bad, but she could still feel a stare boring into the back of her skull and something bumbling in the pit of her stomach that felt a bit like want and a lot like need and she still had more food to cook. 

Regina was back in front of them, laying out ground rules for the second round and their ten minute break and it would probably be weird to ask Killian about his food. 

Right?  
  
That would be weird. 

It didn’t matter – Emma didn’t even get the chance to consider how exactly she’d start the conversation and the banter and the  _ flirting _ before Regina wrapped her hand around Killian’s forearm, casting something that might have been interpreted as a glare in Emma’s direction and dragging him back towards the corner of the studio, marching him towards the catering table like some kind of producer-drill sergeant.  

His shoulders stiffened at the movement, muttering under his breath so softly Emma couldn’t hear what he was saying. He looked angry –  _ mutinous _ . Regina just shook her head, a mess of raven-colored hair and heels clicking loudly on the tiled floor despite the dull roar of the jam-packed set. 

A few weeks ago – and one character reference and saving several hundred wedding appetizers later – Emma was certain she was making headway in the  _ befriend Regina Mills-Locksley _ road she’d been walking, but that seemed more impossible than ever now. 

She absolutely deserved the glare. 

Emma slumped against the edge of the judge’s table, feet stretched out in front of her and Graham shot her another smile – something she was certain was supposed to be understanding, but only served to leave her frustrated. 

They should have talked before. 

She should have answered her phone. 

“You doing alright?” 

Emma’s head snapped up and she nearly dropped the plate she had her in hands – eating her own food to make up for the breakfast she’d neglected and the lack of post-filming conversation with Killian. 

Belle smiled sympathetically at her, brown eyes soft enough that Emma felt her lip shake a bit in the middle of this supermarket. Fake supermarket. It wasn’t real. 

“I’ve been better,” Emma said honestly, working a laugh out of Belle as she stopped next to her, leaning back against the table with her arms crossed. 

“I’m so sorry.”  
  
And that caught Emma short. “What?”  
  
“I'm so sorry,” Belle repeated, shoulders dropping as she tapped her heel against the tiled floor under her feet. “I just...I never thought Robert would go that far. I did try to tell Killian. For whatever that might actually be worth.”

She looked distraught and Emma wasn’t sure what to say. “Oh. Well, I mean, it’s ok,” she mumbled, tongue heavy in her mouth when she spoke.  
  
Belle raised her eyebrows in disbelief and Emma practically stabbed her pasta with her fork, working out all her excess emotion on her first-round bolognese. She chewed thoughtfully for a moment, swallowing slowly so she didn’t inadvertently choke herself. “It’s not quite ok,” she admitted softly, staring at her sneakers.  

“Yeah, I kind of figured.”  
  
“Ruby got me some sort of interview. You know, like with an actual reporter who won’t make it seem like I’m some sort of convict who broke out of jail and forced my way into cooking school. She thinks that’ll help get me back on the air.”  
  
“All of that was stupid to begin with,” Belle said with an intensity Emma had never quite heard in her voice and she silently wondered when she’d started being open enough to have these kinds of deep, emotional conversations with the pastry chef. 

“They shouldn’t have taken your show off at all,” she continued, “if I was better at confrontation I would have marched into Zelena’s office and demanded she put it back on. It was an overreaction. To the highest degree.”  
  
And Emma nearly dropped the plate again. 

She wondered when she’d managed to get so many people in her metaphorical corner, bound and determined to keep her show on the air. And she wondered if Killian would have told her the same thing. 

Probably. 

Definitely. 

He had tried. And that stupid voice in the back of her mind was far too opinionated. He’d tried to tell her, to promise her that they could fix this  _ together  _ and she’d responded by walking out the door and ignoring him for two weeks and then crashing her shopping cart into his. 

A shopping cart. 

Goddamn it, what an absolute mess. 

“That’s more than I’ve done,” Emma said, grinning at Belle with a slight tilt of her head. “I’ve been driving Ruby insane, too stubborn for my own good.” Belle narrowed her eyes at her, confusion written across her face. “I wouldn’t come into the offices,” she explained, voice dropping slightly with the weight of her embarrassment. 

She was a stubborn idiot. 

“I probably wouldn’t have either,” Belle said and Emma felt her smile widen. “And,” she added quickly, glancing back towards the catering table like she was making sure they wouldn’t be overheard. “You’re not the only one who’s been driving producers insane.”

Emma put the plate of half-eaten food behind her, twisting around painfully to make sure it stayed on top of the table and didn’t end up on the floor, doing her best to stop her hand from shaking. 

“What?” she asked, croaking out the word like she hadn’t spoken in weeks.

Belle scrunched her nose, the edges of her eyes narrowing like she was sharing a secret she wasn’t supposed to. Her eyes shot back towards the catering and Emma followed her that time, gaze landing on the back of Killian’s head and the hand wrapped around his neck and Regina standing close next to him, a phone in her hand and her lips moving a mile a minute. 

He didn’t look back at her. 

“He hadn’t been cooking,” Belle said, whispering the words. 

Emma’s heart might have actually cracked or snapped or something physically impossible as soon as the four words had worked their way into her brain and her consciousness and this was her fault. 

“Will told me,” Belle said and either she was completely unaware of the way Emma’s spine had snapped into place, a perfect vertical line of bone and cartilage and tension at that single statement, or she simply didn’t care, certain Emma needed to know what was going on in the restaurant three blocks away from her apartment. 

Probably the second. 

Emma took a deep breath and Belle shot her a look that practically screamed pity, but she didn’t stop talking and, somewhere deep in the recesses of her mind that obnoxious, incessant voice that had tried to get her to stop being so  _ goddamn stupid, _  nearly did cartwheels. 

She needed to hear it. 

She needed to know what had happened. 

“It was bad, Emma,” Belle mumbled, the sides of her mouth tilted down. “I was only there once and then Will told me I probably shouldn’t come around anymore and, well, just take my word on it. It wasn’t good at all. I don’t think he even walked into the kitchen once for a week and then he lost on IC.”  
  
“Wait, what?” Emma asked sharply. Belle’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second as she took a step back. 

“What do you mean, what?”   
  
“I mean the story ran almost two weeks ago. And he lost on IC? He’s never lost on IC. Does Regina know? Has he been back on since then? What was the secret ingredient?”    
  
Belle nodded slowly, that sad, pitying smile hardly playing fair and Emma wasn’t certain which question she was agreeing to exactly. Emma’s stomach churned at that look, disappointment settling in the bottom of her gut. “Oh,” she said, drawing out two letters into one, vaguely emotion-filled syllable. “Yeah, well, things changed a bit when Robin and Regina got back. They won.”    
  
She had to come up with another word. Emma bit back her latest surprised  _ what _ , mouth hanging open as she tried to comb through the back of her mind for something else to say and Belle just kept staring at her, only taking a step back when she heard a pair of heels walking back towards the middle of the set. 

Regina ushered them back towards their stations a muttered  _ time to film _ shot their direction and Emma could feel Killian’s stare on her back again. 

Jeez. 

And fuck. Jeez and fuck. 

Emma was practically a thesaurus. 

Belle’s words echoed in her head. They won. And that meant that her character witness – or statement, a letter typed up quickly two days after the wedding and far later than she’d promised to write it – had worked. 

Or maybe they hadn’t actually needed it. 

Maybe it hadn’t gotten there in time. 

She had no idea. 

No one had told her anything. That seemed to be a trend. It was infuriating. Her apron ties were absolutely too tight – Emma couldn’t breathe. 

“You alright, Swan?” Killian’s voice was soft and it didn’t help that he hadn’t actually moved stations after Graham got cut, an entire counter in between them as he looked at her questioningly. 

“Fine,” she said sharply. 

And she knew he didn’t believe her. She didn’t even need the quick eyebrow raise or the way one side of his mouth ticked up at the word, fingers tapping against the top of his brace quickly. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.”  
  
He pursed his lips, eyes darkening for a moment before nodding deftly and turning back to his station, attention rapt at an instruction-dispensing Jefferson. 

Emma didn’t run him over with her cart in the second round and she counted that as some sort of victory. They had to make chicken and dumplings. In forty minutes with ten minutes to shop. Emma groaned as she tried to rack off ingredients, tossing food into her cart with one eye on the giant LED clock they’d hung from the ceiling. 

This was a mess of a show. 

They’d blocked off one aisle – the one with butter and milk and she was openly groaning now, body falling against the handle of her cart with enough drama that she hoped the camera hadn’t picked up on it. Henry would have made fun of her for it. 

Emma heard Killian’s cart come up short behind her, wheels squeaking and he sighed loudly, no doubt also frustrated by the apparent lack of milk and butter and eggs that the blocked off dairy aisle ensured. 

“What the hell is this?” he asked, glaring at the yellow tape in front of them like it was some sort of crime scene. 

“Part of the show, I guess,” Emma said and she knew her voice sounded as exhausted as she absolutely was. She slept better when he was there. 

She was as much of a mess as this show was. 

“This show is, quite possibly, the worst thing on television.”   
  
The laugh felt unnatural when it fell out of her lips, body shaking slightly with the sound. It was too easy – too easy to fall back into  _ this  _ with him, this natural comfort and ease that had sparked all of it to begin with, let him dry dishes for her and hold her hand and come on her show. 

And for whatever kind of mess of emotions Emma was, whatever kind of mess of emotions they both were on this disaster of a show, it still felt easy. 

Killian grinned at her. “You think I could just break in?” he asked, nodding towards the single line of tape blocking them off from the dairy. “Grab some buttermilk and no one would be the wiser.”  
  
“The cameras might catch you.”

“I think I’d be willing to risk it.”  
  
“You wouldn’t win then.”

He didn’t laugh at that and Emma bit her lip tightly, resisting the very strong urge to rock back on her feet or grab her hair or kiss him. There were cameras. 

“That’s true,” Killian muttered softly, fingers tugging on the hair behind his ear. 

Jefferson called out _one_ _minute_ and Emma’s head fell forward softly, disappointment coursing through her system and, probably, settling on her face. “We should probably get some food,” she said. 

“Seems like a fairly good plan.”

Emma nodded once, yanking her cart towards her so quickly it collided with her ankle and the metaphorical pain had turned literal and this show was the, absolute, worst.  She cooked with a kind of focus she hadn’t felt in years, the banter from the first three competitions left to the metaphorical wayside with a station in between them and Belle’s voice ringing in her mind. 

Her eyes darted towards Killian more than they should have – curiosity getting the better of her again as she tried to figure out what he was making. Emma gave up on traditional – and that felt like some sort of TV cooking milestone – opting against the usual biscuit recipe stored in the back corner of her classically-trained brain for something that included cornbread and a distinct step out of her comfort zone. 

She didn’t, however, count on going up against him in the final round. 

That just seemed unfair. 

Somehow. 

As if the world was somehow going to get fair for Emma Swan. 

Mary Margaret had asked about it – muttered words and questions spoken over mugs of hot chocolate and tea respectively and Emma hadn’t come up with an answer for her then, unsure of what she’d do if this situation laid itself at her sneaker-wearing feet. 

She didn’t have an answer for it now either. 

Killian, for his part, looked as uncomfortable as she did, hand practically glued to the back of his hair, tugging behind his ear as Regina dragged him away again and practically forced a glass of water towards him, making him pull his hand away from his head. 

Emma didn’t move an inch – no Belle to talk to this break after Anna had ushered her off set to do her talking head. 

She ate her own food again, picking apart the cornbread that the judges had raved over – words like  _ ingenious _ and a  _ really smart way to get around the aisle obstacle _ – until it crumbled in between her fingers. 

Regina marched Killian back towards his station, still a counters-length and a few feet away from Emma’s, eyeing her pointedly before letting Jefferson hit his scotch-taped mark and fall back into host mode, rattling off instructions with a seemingly never-ending burst of enthusiasm. 

“Well,” Emma said pointedly. Killian’s head snapped towards her as Jefferson continued to talk about grocery lists of must-be-used food and no carts allowed and things that hardly seemed as important as the way his eyes furrowed when he looked at her. “Here we are again. Final round and all that.”  
  
“And all that,” Killian repeated and maybe it was good that they kept them a counters-length away from each other.  He smiled at her and Emma’s heart pounded traitorously in her chest, beating against the inside of her ribs quickly and forcefully, a quick counter-point to the singular sound of the air horn that announced the final round had started. 

This show was the worst. 

“Is dessert pizza actually a thing?” Killian asked, stopping short next to her in an aisle chock-full of candy. 

“Maybe if you’re five,” she said, grabbing a bag of mini Hershey bars she could probably melt to make some kind of chocolate, not-actually-pizza sauce. “And if you’re willing to wait an hour for a table at Max Brenner’s.”  
  
“You still wait for tables, Swan?” he asked, eyes flashing and the smile on his face made it feel as if Emma hadn’t actually ignored a dozen phone calls for the last two weeks. “Let me know when you want to go to Max Brenner’s. I’ll get you a table.”  
  
“So confident.”  
  
“Something like that.”  
  
Emma tugged on the inside of her lip, pushing the bag of candy bars into the crook of her elbow so she could hold more food. “Don’t pile the chocolate on your pizza,” she said, trying to keep the smile on her face as she walked around him. 

“Noted, Swan.”

And he was definitely still smiling at her as she all but sprinted back towards the produce aisle, determined to get something that wasn’t prepackaged and air-tight on her final-round offering. 

For some reason, this stupid show only let them cook for twenty minutes and Emma was bordering on sweaty mess when Jefferson shouted out  _ time _ , hair plastered to the back of her neck despite the ponytail it was in, chest moving quickly as she made her way to the judges table. 

He was still smiling at her. 

And his hand was back behind his ear. 

“You seem to have reigned in your chocolate habit,” Emma said softly, hands stuck in her pockets again. 

“Yeah, well, someone told me I should reconsider my dessert approach,” Killian said, smirking at her and it sounded like someone sighed from out of frame. It might have been Regina. Or Ruby. Or possibly even Belle. 

Emma rubbed her hands on the sides of her jeans, nerves working their way out of every single pore in her body and she didn’t even hear the judge’s comments, voices blending together until they sounded like they were coming from a children’s cartoon – which made a lot of sense considering they’d been ordered to make dessert pizza. 

But then she heard her name and Ruby might have actually screeched from out of frame and Emma had, somehow, won. 

“Congratulations, love,” Killian said softly – the first time he’d called her that all day and the word settled in the middle of her body like it was a small flame or something equally romantic and ridiculous. 

“But you didn’t use chocolate,” Emma argued and his smile widened, rocking towards her, maybe, unconsciously until his fingers brushed over the turn of her elbow, shirt pulling underneath his touch. 

“And you still won. Looks like you’re fairly good at cooking.” Emma huffed out a sound that might have been a laugh or the actual, living embodiment of her entire nervous system and Killian’s eyes practically sparkled when he grinned at her. “David will be thrilled,” he added, reaching behind him to yank on apron strings. 

“What?”  
  
“Your charity? You won the most competitions, Swan. Isn’t that what Zelena said at the very beginning? Ahead of the final cooking thing. You won, love.”

He said the words with a very particular look on his face, eyeing her nervously and emotionally and Emma had absolutely forgotten about that part. 

She’d won. 

She opened her mouth to say something, ask to try his dessert or tell him  _ something _ that wasn’t focused on the food or the cooking or anything about grocery shopping, but Regina was by his side in an instant, words low and insistent and Killian’s smile faltered for a moment, an apology written on the corners of his mouth. 

And for a moment Emma thought he would argue, would tell Regina to back off, as he took a step towards her, hand reaching out again. “Don’t leave when you’re done,” he said. “Please?”

Emma’s barely-functioning kidneys – still hurting from apron strings and a slew of emotions she should have been better prepared for – seemed to give out in the middle of the set and she wasn’t sure how she managed to nod, let alone mumble a quick  _ yeah _ , but it must have happened because Killian squeezed her hand and smiled at her before following Regina back towards the studio down the hall. 

Emma took a deep breath, shoulders sagging and she couldn’t take this makeup off until she’d filmed her own talking head and she hoped Killian hurried up – and not just because of the makeup. Her eyes snapped up at the sound of heels sprinting across the floor and for one moment of paralyzing-fear Emma thought Regina had come back to  _ actually _ yell at her and not just glare at her meaningfully across set. 

It wasn’t Regina – it was Ruby, a smile plastered on her face and a phone pressed up against to her ear as she practically screamed Emma’s name at her. 

“What’s going on?” Emma asked, hands coming up to prevent Ruby from skidding into her. 

“I need to talk to you.”  
  
“Didn’t we do this before?”  
  
“This is different,” Ruby said. “And better.” She rolled her eyes and huffed out a frustrated sigh at the vacant look on Emma’s face, pushing the phone into her hand and nodding impatiently at it. “Talk,”

“Hello?” Emma asked cautiously, leaning against the side of her station. 

“Em? Em!”

David’s voice shot through the phone and Emma felt her eyebrows draw low at the sheer panic in his voice. “What’s going on?” she asked, repeating her question again and hoping, this time, someone would answer her.  
  
“You’re done filming?”  
  
“Yeah, just now. David, tell me what’s going on.”  
  
“Mary Margaret went into labor.”  
  
Emma nearly dropped the phone. Her right foot skidded against the tiled floor, sneakers making noise as she moved and Ruby smirked at her. “What? When? How?”  
  
“Did you just ask me how?”  
  
“No, no, I mean, yes, and I know how, shut up.”  
  
David laughed and Emma wasn’t positive she’d ever heard her brother so happy – even across the phone and several dozen city blocks. “Get down here. Like as soon as possible.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” Emma said, muttering almost incoherently. David laughed at her again, a picture of self-assured impending fatherhood. “I’ll grab a cab and I’ll be there soon, ok? Tell her to wait until I’m there, ok?”

“I don’t think that’s how these things work, Em.”

“I absolutely don’t care.”  
  
Emma hung up the phone, David still laughing as she hit the end button and handed it back to Ruby. “He knew you wouldn’t have your phone on set,” Ruby said, answering a question Emma hadn’t actually asked. “And Henry’s already there. He called the ambulance from the apartment. That probably won’t scar him for life or anything.”  
  
“You’re no help at all,” Emma shot back, yanking the strings of her apron and tossing it on top of her counter. “I need to get out of here.”  
  
“I’ve already taken care of that too,” Ruby said, pushing her towards the far door of the studio and Emma almost felt guilty. “Or rather Regina did. She got you a town car that’s waiting downstairs. Hit like two buttons on her phone during judging and it’s, apparently, already there.”

“I thought she hated me.”  
  
Ruby rolled her eyes, heel tapping impatiently as the elevator didn’t move fast enough. “I think she got over that when Killian told her to relax in between rounds.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Stop saying that.”  
  
“It’s because no one will actually tell me anything.”  
  
Another set of rolled eyes and a dramatic sigh and Ruby and Emma were on the sidewalk on 6th Ave, a car parked just outside the network offices with a driver already behind the wheel. “Let’s worry about the newborn before we delve into the dark corners of your relationship, yeah?” Ruby asked, yanking the door closed behind her. 

Emma nodded, focusing on  _ newborn _ and  _ relationship  _ and the tiny flash of hope on Killian’s face when he’d asked her to stay. 

Oh, shit. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someday they won't get interrupted. It is not this day. On the bright side, Emma totally won! And Guy's Grocery Games is actually an entertaining show! Although there really is a lot of obnoxious theming. 
> 
> As always, every click, comment and kudos absolutely blows my mind and @laurenorder continues to be a gift who makes sure Emma didn't go over the $20 limit when I forget I made the $20 limit. 
> 
> Come flail on Tumblr: http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/


	36. Chapter 36

He scanned the set, eyes moving quickly and breath picking up of its own accord, desperately trying to find a flash of yellow hair or green eyes, listening for the unnatural squeak of her sneakers. 

She wasn’t there. 

She’d left. 

Well, that wasn’t exactly how Killian had planned on this playing out. To be fair, he wasn’t sure how he had planned on it playing out at all, but that was beside the point. 

Because Emma had left and they hadn’t talked – aside from that one moment he’d called her  _ love _ and her eyes had nearly fallen out of her head – and she’d walked off set after promising to stay and he wasn’t quite sure what to do. 

He was frozen.

And Regina’s heels were incredibly loud. 

“You need to start wearing flats,” Killian muttered, staring at the wall opposite him. He still hadn’t moved. “You’re practically announcing your entrance every time you walk into a room.”  
  
“That’s kind of the point.”

“Make you seem more menacing?”   
  
Regina raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow at him, lips twisted up into something vaguely sarcastic and, maybe, almost mocking and started out a slow, steady rhythm with the back of her heel. 

“Rude,” she said sharply and Killian rolled his eyes dramatically. “You finished moping yet?”   
  
“Moping?”   
  
“Yes. Exactly that.”   
  
“I don’t mope.”   
  
“You have been for two weeks. And you’re doing it now. All moping and frustrating and not winning. Again. She didn’t leave, you know.”

“What?” He wasn’t sure what he was asking about, eyes narrowing as he turned to stare at his producer. Regina just smiled at him, eyebrows doing something pointed and ridiculous and chock-full of the opinions she hadn’t been shy about sharing since getting back from her honeymoon the week before. 

“Well,” Regina said, foot still tapping out a beat that might have actually been driving Killian insane. “I don’t actually know about two full weeks, but Ariel used a lot of adjectives to describe how you were acting while we were away.”   
  
“Did you just come over to gloat?”   
  
“No, I came here to tell you where she went.” He could feel the surprise settle on his face and Regina’s smile was all-knowing and smug and Killian bit into his lip to stop himself from saying something he’d probably regret. “You want to know, don’t you?”   
  
Of course he wanted to know. 

And Regina knew he wanted to know. 

He was a frustrated, unknowing mess who should have said something and shouldn’t have called her love on set and, absolutely, should have marched three blocks down the street a week ago and banged on her apartment door until she let him in and let him explain and get rid of this tiny ball of anxiety and worry and  _ despair _ that had taken up root in his gut since she’d walked out his door. 

“Obviously,” Killian spat out and Regina glared at him like he was a child she had recently been cleared to adopt and was set on disciplining. He groaned, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling and the lines of lights above his head. “Sorry,” he mumbled, Regina’s hand falling on his shoulder in something that almost felt comforting. 

“See, this is moping.”   
  
“And you still haven’t actually told me anything.”   
  
“She went to the hospital.”   
  
“What?” He knew his voice cracked – something he wasn’t positive had happened in, at least, twenty years – and Regina was openly laughing at him now. “God dammit, Gina, now you’re just being difficult on purpose, aren’t you?”   
  
“I got her a car.”   
  
“To take her to the hospital?”

“Where she was going? Yes.”   
  
“Gina.”   
  
She laughed again and crossed her arms, gazing at him appraisingly. “Her sister went into labor.”   
  
“What?”

“Do you honestly not understand how that works?” Killian widened his eyes at her and Regina’s eyes flashed, uncrossing her arms and tugging on his sleeve softly in a way she hadn’t done in years, smile softening just a bit. “She didn’t leave. Not really. Just…you know?”   
  
“There was a baby involved.”   
  
“Or a soon-to-be baby.”   
  
“I’ve got to go.”   
  
“Of course you do,” Regina said, fingers still wrapped around his sleeve. And it was all incredibly understanding. She’d been, for the most part, understanding, not even yelling about that loss on Iron Chef – far too excited with being able to adopt Roland and fresh off a honeymoon that had, apparently, been nothing short of perfect. 

They’d all been understanding and Killian still felt guilty. 

He needed to talk to Emma. 

“Go,” Regina continued, tugging again for good measure. “Tell her you were an idiot and you’re so absurdly in love with her you can’t even think straight and that you stormed into Zelena’s office this week and demanded she put her show back on the air.”   
  
“How did you know about that?”   
  
“I know everything.”   
  
“And Zelena probably told you, didn’t she?”   
  
“She was worried.”   
  
“About her ratings.”   
  
“And maybe you.”   
  
“She should be worried about Emma.”   
  
“Of course she is. But you’re the one who marched into her office. Emma wouldn’t come in and not for lack of Ruby trying. That’s a totally different story, though.” 

Killian made a face, mouth twisting uncomfortably at the memory of Wednesday afternoon and demands and sharp words and Zelena’s consistently impassive face behind her monstrously large desk. It hadn’t made much of a difference. 

Although it wasn’t Sunday yet. 

Who knew. 

Maybe. 

And that felt like hope. 

“Go,” Regina repeated, nodding towards the door. “You’ll miss all the fun stuff at the hospital if you don’t get uptown soon.”   
“Is there a fun part to labor?”

Regina shrugged. “People say it’s meaningful or something.”

“I’m sure.”   
  
“Go.” Killian nodded, leaning forward quickly and kissing Regina’s cheek, squeezing the side of her shoulder and she actually swatted him away, all but pushing him towards the door. “Lenox Hill!” She shouted the words as the door slammed shut behind him. 

It took thirty minutes to get uptown and that was thirty minutes too long and Killian still hadn’t actually come up with any kind of plan for explaining what he was doing at the hospital or how he got there or what he was going to talk about when he finally got the chance to talk to Emma. 

And he had to find her first.

A nurse who, apparently,  _ lived _ on his Iron Chef appearances offered to personally escort him to the maternity ward and he was far too stunned to actually argue. He also needed directions to the maternity ward. 

Killian skidded to a stop a few feet away from a line of chairs and a pacing David and an amused Henry – a picture that all seemed a bit too  cliché to actually be real and then David sighed dramatically and Henry laughed loudly, pushing himself out of his chair as his eyes landed on Killian. 

“Hey,” Henry said, glancing nervously at his still-pacing uncle and keeping his voice low so he wouldn’t draw his attention. 

“Hey.”   
  
“My mom’s not here.”   
  
“I can see that.”   
  
“But you’re here.”   
  
“Also true.”   
  
Henry grinned at him – a smile nearly identical to the one Emma shot his way when she found him particularly amusing and Killian should have come up with a plan of conversational attack because this was nothing if not completely disarming. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” Henry said, glancing down at his shoes when he spoke. 

“Yeah?   
  
He nodded, a jerky movement that made Killian’s stomach flip with a whole mix of emotions he probably shouldn’t be having with a fleet of babies a couple hundred feet away from him. “I mean, you should have shown up earlier,” Henry said. “But, if it was anything for you like it was for my mom, then I guess I get it.”   
  
“And how was it like for your mom?”   
  
“Bad.” Henry took a deep breath, pressing his lips together tightly and looked back up at Killian – a straight gaze without accusation, just the single word settling in the space in between the two of them. 

“Me too,” Killian said and it felt like he was admitting to something much bigger and far more important than two words and five letters. 

“Good.”   
  
Killian huffed out a laugh, widening his eyes at Henry who didn’t even blink and there was no way he was thirteen – only just – because he was absolutely an adult. Or just incredibly protective of his mom. 

“Killian,” David said, coming up mid-pace and blinking at him quickly. “What are you doing here?”   
  
“He came to see Mom,” Henry supplied helpfully and David nodded like that was the only feasible option. Of course it was.

“You wouldn’t happen to know where she might be, would you?” Killian asked, rocking back on his feet nervously. 

“She’s down the hall. She’s been down there for like ten minutes something about how she couldn’t watch Uncle David pace a hole in the floor.”

Killian scoffed softly, eyeing David as he retreated back to his side of the waiting room, eyes trained on the lines of the carpet he was treading. “Shouldn't he be waiting with Mary Margaret?” he asked, glancing at Henry who just shook his head in response.   
  
“She’s filling out paperwork,” David answered, not even bothering to slow down. “Told me to come out here and someone would come get me when things actually started.”   
  
“Have they not actually started?” Henry laughed again, smile wide on his face and he nodded towards the far corner of the hallway. 

“I’m, uh, going to take a walk,” Killian mumbled, raising his eyebrows meaningfully towards Henry. He nodded encouragingly and that felt like some kind of blessing or a step in the right direction. 

And then Killian took twenty-two more steps – he certainly didn’t count, that would have been absurd – stopping just a few feet away from the blonde hair he’d been looking for, nearly, an hour before. 

Emma was standing in front of a wall of windows, leaning her forearm against the glass, forehead resting on her wrist with a small smile on her face. She laughed softly, chuckling under her breath when a nurse put a baby down in an impossibly small bed on the other side of the window. 

And his whole body seized up at the sight, pulse thudding in his ears and he forgot every single plan he’d come up with on his twenty-two step walk. 

“Didn’t think I’d see one of those again,” Killian said softly. Emma jumped, sneakers squeaking as she moved a few feet off the ground. She spun quickly, eyebrows jumping up her forehead and shoulders heaving slightly and the smile on her face faltered.

“I think they’re usually referred to as babies.”   
  
Killian felt his mouth tick up at the sound of her voice and steps twenty-three and twenty-four were a bit shakier than the first twenty-two had been. “I was talking about the smile. The one that was on your face. Not so much anymore and I’m trying not to dwell on that too much or I might lose my nerve.”

“I don’t think that’s possible,” Emma said, hand ghosting over the end of her ponytail. 

“So much faith, Swan.”   
  
“Enough,” she muttered, taking a step closer to him until her sneakers almost hit against his. “What are you doing here? How did you even know where I was?”   
  
“Henry.” Emma nodded knowingly, nervous smile back on her face. “And Regina too. Gave up your location without so much as an argument.”

“I should probably be more upset about that than I am.”  
  
“And you’re not?” Killian asked. “Upset?”   
  
“Not about Regina giving up my location. She did get me the car, after all.”

“True.”   
  
“But maybe about some other stuff.”   
  
Killian sighed – or maybe took a deep breath, he wasn’t entirely positive what was going on and Emma had moved back towards the babies, eyes focused on a particularly well-swaddled newborn in a bright pink blanket. 

“I hate when they force them into color coordinated outfits like that,” Killian muttered, standing next to her and eying a kid who was, apparently, named Lilly. 

“M's won’t let them do that to Leo Henry. We weren’t even supposed to buy anything blue, even after they knew it was a boy.”   
  
“Good. That’s good. She’ll be a good mom.”   
  
“She will.”   
  
They stood there for what felt like hours or days or another two weeks of decidedly ignoring each other and the same nurse moved, at least, seven different babies before Emma breathed out slowly and took a step back and he felt her stare land on the back of his head. 

“Killian,” she said softly and he nearly fell over when he spun around to stare at her. 

“Yeah?”   
  
“I might not be  _ really _ mad about the other stuff. At least not anymore. Or maybe a little. I don’t know. I think I might mostly be mad at myself. Or something. I should have returned your calls. I wanted to return your calls.”   
  
Killian reached forward slowly, fingers grazing over the back side of her wrist and there was something in the way she didn’t object, but she also didn’t move an inch – not towards him or away from him and his throat might have tightened at the way she pressed her lips together tightly. 

“You don’t have to explain yourself, love.”   
  
“I want to.”   
  
“Yeah?”

Emma nodded and she twisted her hand, fingers wrapping around his tightly and maybe they were back on track – they hadn’t really said anything. “I should have answered your phone calls or called you back,” she said. “For the record, I did listen to the voicemails.”   
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“Say something else, please.”   
  
“I’m sorry.”   
  
The words were out of his mouth before he’d even really considered them and Emma’s eyes went wide and that was the crux of the issue – he was sorry and he needed her to understand that. 

Desperately. But that kind of thing sounded insane when you say the word out loud. 

“For?”   
  
“Emma.” 

“I’m genuinely curious.”   
  
“I should have told you. About the expansion and Gold and the deal and lack of deal and, well, everything. That’s how relationships are supposed to work, right?”   
  
“I honestly have no idea.”   
  
“Me either.”   
  
“And maybe tell me about Iron Chef,” Emma added and Killian wished they were still standing in front of the baby window. This would have been easier if there was some sort of newborn distraction. “And maybe about Regina and Robin.”   
  
“What about Regina and Robin?”   
  
“Adoption. And winning. And how either one of them reacted to you losing on Iron Chef.”   
  
“How did you find about that? Either of those things?”

Emma grinned at him, leaning back against the wall opposite the baby window and sliding down until she was sitting on the floor, feet stretched out straight in front of her. 

He smiled, dropping down next to her until his arm brushed against hers. 

And he loved her. 

More than he expected to or more than he, probably, realized right at that very moment. He should have knocked down her apartment door. He should have talked to Zelena the day after that story ran. 

He should have done a million and two things, but he hadn’t, because he was, perpetually, a screw-up and a mistake and an almost-there kind of guy who never entirely got what he wanted and he wanted Emma Swan. 

More than he expected. 

“Belle, surprisingly,” Emma said, shaking him out of some sort of spiral in the middle of the hallway. “She’s got a very big mouth when she feels particularly strong about something. And apparently she felt very strongly about the status of my show.”   
  
“That makes two of us.”

Emma’s eyes widened and he felt her shoulder move against his – like she was going to move her arm and maybe hold his hand, but then thought better of it. “Yeah?” she asked, whispering out the word softly and straight into the spot in between his rib cage that had been resoundingly empty since she’d walked out of his apartment. 

He was an idiot.

“Ask Zelena,” Killian said. “She’ll tell you.”   
  
“What did you do?”   
  
“Demanded she put your show back on the air. About a week ago.” Emma sighed loudly and her shoulder moved again and Killian didn’t even give her a chance to doubt herself, just grabbed her hand and laced his fingers through hers and kept talking. “She didn’t promise anything, but, you know Zelena. She overreacted.”   
  
“That’s what Belle said.”   
  
“And what do you say?”

“That I should have talked to Zelena myself. I can take care of myself.”   
  
“I've got no doubt, Swan.” Her eyes shot towards him, smile lifting one side of her lips when he fell back into the nickname, leaving  _ Emma _ – and everything those four letters seemed to mean to both of them – in front of a baby window and what he wanted and couldn’t actually put a name to. “But when something is, at least, three quarters my fault, I feel kind of obligated to fix it.”   
  
“Three quarters, huh?”   
  
“At least.”

“What was your secret ingredient?”

He leaned back, staring at her with low eyebrows and she met his gaze with nerves etched into every inch of her face. “What?”   
  
“Your secret ingredient,” Emma repeated. “When you lost.”   
  
“Oh.”   
  
“Oh.”   
  
Killian laughed softly, dragging the heel of his foot back up until his leg was bent and he rested his chin knee. He thought this would have been easier. Or he hoped it would have been easier. Emma glanced at him again, mouth twisted like she was tugging on the inside of her cheek with her teeth. 

“Crab,” he said and Emma made a face. 

“How do you make dessert crab?”   
  
“A question I’m still trying to find an answer to.”   
  
“Is that why you lost?”   
  
“No.” Emma took a deep breath, but her hand didn’t move out of his, just waited for him to explain and he tried to figure out how to do that without sounding like some sort of lovesick fool. Which he was. Absolutely. “I kind of had some other things on my mind,” he said. 

“Belle mentioned Will said you didn’t cook.”   
  
“What was that string of gossip?” 

“Please,” Emma scoffed. “That one was easy to follow.”

“I didn’t. Cook, I mean. I followed your string of gossip fairly easily. Although she hasn’t actually been to The Jolly in forever.”   
  
“Me either,” Emma said, thumb scraping across the edge of her fingernails quickly. “Cook, I mean. And Belle told me it was because you were a walking timebomb when you were at work. Will told her not to come anymore.”   
  
His chest ached – like he wasn’t getting enough air into his lungs and Emma shrugged. “Henry was thrilled, of course, when I didn’t make food” she laughed. “All takeout all the time for a couple of days or or so. It was like a dream come true for him.”   
  
“A couple of days?”   
  
Emma grinned at him, lips pulled up as she nodded. “David staged a one-man intervention on my behalf. Or your behalf, I guess. Last week. Forced me into the kitchen with him and Mary Margaret and pushed a spatula in my hand. Ruby was there too, but she mostly just drank. It got me to cook again though, which was pretty much the point. I had, you know, some other things on my mind too.”   
  
Killian barked out a laugh, closing his eyes lightly at the absolute absurdity of it all. “What?” Emma asked. 

“Ari did the same thing.”   
  
“Really?”   
  
“Found me at Battery Park a week ago and told me to stop being an ass and scaring her husband.”   
  
“What were you doing?”

“At Battery Park or my restaurant?”   
  
“Either or.”   
  
“Freezing my ass off at Battery Park,” he said, laughing sarcastically and Emma smiled at him sympathetically. “But mostly thinking. It’s easier to think near water. Something about waves and tides. I’m sure a therapist would have a field day with it.”   
  
“And at The Jolly?” 

“Yelling. And not cooking. And then yelling again. And losing on Iron Chef.”   
  
“Because of all those things you had on your mind?”   
  
“Because of you, Emma,” he said, words falling into the somehow still-empty hallway, feelings laid out bare and a bit broken and she smiled at him. His chest didn’t hurt as much anymore. “Because I fucked up. And I didn’t tell you things that I should have and wanted to and was too scared to and I think I might be going a bit crazy, honestly, because this is big and overwhelming and I didn’t think it would be like this.”

Emma bit her lip tightly, thumb dragging across the back of his palm and the nurse was back in the baby window, gazing at them expectantly. Like they weren’t supposed to be there. They probably weren’t supposed to be there.   
  
“Like what?” Emma whispered. 

“Everything.”   
  
“Yeah.”   
  
“I just want you to be happy, Swan.”   
  
And, really, that was it. 

That was why he’d lied or not lied or kept secrets or  _ whatever _ . He wanted her to be happy. He wanted everyone in her life to be happy so that Emma could keep being happy. So he didn’t talk when he should have and barged into the offices of network heads and made demands he absolutely couldn’t back up because as much as he may have threatened to walk away from Iron Chef, he needed the appearances and the paycheck to buy off a building he wasn’t even going to use anymore. 

“I am happy,” Emma said, snapping his attention back in full force as soon as her hand rested on his prosthetic. “I’m happier when you’re around though.”   
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“That’s not something you should feel a need to question.”

“It’s been a weird two weeks.”   
  
“True.”

“It felt like d éjà vu,” Emma said quickly and so softly Killian was positive she hadn’t actually said anything. 

“What?”   
  
“It felt like, you know, what had happened before. With Neal.”   
  
“Swan…”   
  
“No, no,” she sputtered, shaking her head and the end of her ponytail hit against the side of his neck. “Let me get this out, please.” Killian nodded once and Emma took a deep breath, shoulders moving with the effort. “I know it’s not and I knew it before too, I just, I’ve worked so hard to get here, to this point with this show and to even imagine that it could all just get ripped away because of one thing I’d done when I was seventeen and that you were, somehow, involved in that, I don’t know, my mind kind of snapped. Or something. 

I wanted to come back as soon as I walked out of the building. I picked up my phone a half a dozen times to call you back that day and I just...I couldn’t do it.”

“I understand, Swan,” Killian said, Emma’s head snapping around quickly to stare at him. 

“Do you?”   
  
“I do. I can’t imagine you’ve thought anything about me that I haven’t felt or considered in the last seven months.”

Emma nodded slowly, lips pressed together tightly. They didn’t say anything else for another two weeks, maybe, and she let go of his hand and pushed herself back up the floor, crossing the hallway in three quick steps until she was gazing at Lilly the pink-blanket newborn again, an almost wistful look on her face. 

“It wasn’t like this, you know,” she muttered, mostly into the glass. 

“What wasn’t?”   
  
“When I had Henry. It wasn’t like this.”   
  
And he was nearly drowning in want and need and a bunch of desire that was completely inappropriate for a maternity ward and a recently-turned thirteen-year-old and a probably still-pacing brother down the hallway. “What was it like?” Killian asked softly and the distance across the hallway seemed impossibly long. 

She glanced at him over her shoulder, eyes a bit sadder than they were when he got there. “It was...scary.”

“Scary?”   
  
Emma nodded slowly, looking back at Lily, fingers dancing along the side of her jeans in some sort of nervous pattern he should have memorized by now. “Terrifying’s probably a better word. I was terrified.”   
  
“Of what?”   
  
“Everything. All at once. Not being a good mom or never leaving Storybrooke.”   
  
“You did both of those things, Swan,” he said, pushing back off the floor and taking a cautious step forward.   
  
“I was scared of being alone. I was alone – when I had Henry and it, well, it wasn’t good. I, uh, I don’t want to be alone again.”

She bit her lip again, glancing at Lilly and a dozen newborns and her eyes were glossy and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to watch her cry in the middle of the hallway in the maternity wing of this hospital. “You’re not,” Killian said, thumb brushing across the tear he knew she’d deny anyway. 

Emma shrugged again, the movement cutting through him and he hadn’t kissed her in two weeks and that was two weeks too long and he didn’t care if the newborns saw or that one nurse saw or even told them to leave, he was going to kiss her again and prove something right there in the hallway. 

Her eyes widened for a moment, eyelashes moving when she blinked almost hyperactively and her hand came up to rest on the front of his jacket. He could feel the heat. Or maybe that was metaphorical. 

And maybe he was an absolute idiot. 

Who loved her more than anything. 

Killian stared at her for a moment – narrowed eyes meeting her still-wide ones – hand wrapping around her shoulders and they were moving before he realized, her back and his arm colliding with a soda machine pressed up against the wall. His hand was in her hair and her fingers were underneath his jacket and tugging on his shirt and her teeth on his lip like that was, somehow, playing fair.    
  
He knew he missed her, knew he wanted her back and in his restaurant and his apartment and his entire goddamn life, but he hadn’t realized quite how much until she sighed against his lips and her fingers brushed across the collar of the t-shirt he’d never actually changed out of. 

“You’re not just your show,” Killian said softly and she didn’t pull away when his hand reached for hers instinctively. 

“No?”   
  
He shook his head emphatically, more certain of that singular sentiment than just about anything in the rest of the world. “No. You’re more than that. You are...everything.”

“Awfully sentimental.”   
  
“And true.” Emma looked at him, like she was waiting for the punchline or the rest of the joke, tilting her head in what appeared to actually be disbelief when it didn’t come. “And you’re going to get your show back,” Killian added, thumb grazing her cheek again when that pesky emotion started showing itself again. 

“You don’t know that.”   
  
“I do.”   
  
“So much faith,” she mumbled, repeating his words from before and that felt like an eternity ago. 

“Just in you.”

Emma rolled her eyes, shaking her head, uncertainty practically rolling off her body. “Ruby wants me to do an interview with some kind of magazine, something reputable she said. She thinks it’ll help my case or something.”   
  
“What do you think?”

“I think I want my show back. And that this will help. I already told her I’d do it, it nearly knocked her off her ridiculous heels.”   
  
“Then I think you should do it,” Killian said, nodding like that added another dimension to his point. 

“Just like that?”   
  
“Why wouldn’t I?”   
  
“I don’t know,” Emma said, voice shaking a bit as she blinked quickly. “You’re just...supportive.”   
  
“Isn’t that how it’s supposed to work? You wouldn’t have to be doing this if it wasn’t for me or if I had just told you or a handful of other scenarios that could have played out differently and I wouldn’t have just kissed you for the first time in two weeks in the middle of a hospital.”   
  
“I’m just not used to that.”   
  
“David and Mary Margaret are like your own personal cheerleading squad.” He didn’t want to argue with her, knew that arguing was counterproductive to the point he was trying to make, but he needed her to understand. 

She wasn’t alone anymore.   
  
“I don’t want to make out with either of them in the middle of the hospital.”   
  
“Noted. And appreciated.”   
  
“Good.”   
  
“I just want you to get what you want,” Killian said softly, losing some of the edge and determination he’d had in his voice just a few seconds ago. This was bordering on some vaguely thin emotional ice and his head pounded with the idea of putting it all  _ out there _ , laid in front of Emma Swan’s feet like he’d put his heart there too. 

He had. 

“I know,” she answered easily, tears falling down her face faster than he could catch them. “And I know that’s why you didn’t tell me. It’s almost valiant if you think about it.”   
  
“Have you thought about it?”   
  
“Non stop for the last two weeks.”   
  
The air rushed out of his lungs quickly, nearly knocking him forward again and Emma tried to smile at him, but her eyes were still wet and his own emotions were threatening to boil over and this was still overwhelming. 

“Although I wouldn’t appreciate being told things from now on,” she said, the laughter lingering just on the edge of her voice. 

“I’d like that.”   
  
“Yeah?” Killian nodded, giving up on trying to reign in the tears and opting, instead, to settle on her hip again, fingers pushed underneath the edge of her shirt until they hit skin. He appreciated her quick intake of breath at that. “Can I ask you something then?”   
  
“Of course, love.” And he appreciated the quick flash of her eyes at that word even more. 

“What do you want?”

He should have been ready for it – turnabout was fair play, after all – but Killian was fairly certain he wasn’t ready for anything when Emma was involved and he knew she could see the  _ emotion _ on his face as soon as the words sunk into him. 

Emma bit her lip – taking his silence and his face for something entirely different than what it was. He wasn’t unsure of his answer, he just didn’t want to send her running when he gave it. “Sorry, sorry,” she muttered quickly, trying to move her body away from the soda machine and his arm still held up on one side of her body. “I shouldn’t have asked. I just kind of figured if we were doing this whole thing or whatever…”   
  
“Emma,” he cut her off quickly and her eyes dragged up towards his almost unwillingly. “Emma, listen to me.”   
  
“You haven’t said anything.”

“It’s you,” Killian said simply. 

“What?”   
  
“You,” he repeated. “You asked what I wanted. I want you.”   
  
He thought she would answer, say something or maybe even roll her eyes at the overwhelming weight of emotion in his voice. He was ready for it, steeled against her muttered contradictions and soft argument, but they never came. 

Instead she moved and the hand that had never left his jacket tightened, grabbing the leather and pulling him towards her and it all felt a little bit like Halloween, but with one very definite difference – she didn’t run away. 

And he’d told her, told her what he’d done and what he wanted and the only thing that mattered then was the only thing that had really ever mattered – Emma. 

Killian could feel the tears on her cheek again when his hand came to rest against her jaw, fingers threading their way into her hair and he should have wiped them away, should have told her she didn’t have to cry or worry or do anything, so long as she kept kissing him. He didn’t. He kissed her back instead, trying to pour every ounce of every emotion he’d felt in the last two weeks into the way his lips moved against hers. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, pulling away from Killian and he had to bite back the groan in the back of his throat so he didn’t sound like a frustrated teenager. 

“For what, love?”   
  
“I shouldn’t have walked away. Not from you.”   
  
“I shouldn’t have lied to you.”   
  
“I thought we said it was an omission of the truth.”

“Did you miss the part where I was being an ass, Swan?” She laughed, smiling shooting through every part of him like a bolt of electricity. “I just...I didn’t want you to think you wouldn’t be able to get what you want simply because I was in the way.”   
  
She smiled at him again – but it didn’t quite reach her eyes, fingers dancing along the back of his neck. “Maybe,” Emma said slowly, tongue pressing into her lip, “I’m reconsidering what it is I want, exactly.”

“That so?”   
  
“It’s a work in progress.”   
  
“I can wait.”   
  
Emma looked straight at him and Killian pressed his feet into the bottom of sneakers so he didn’t do anything absurd like try and kiss her again. She blinked once and her smile seed to inch across her face, fingers still moving until the found his hair again and he hardly even heard the footsteps sprinting down the hallway towards them. “I know you can,” she said and it felt like more of a promise than anything she’d said to him before.

“You found her,” Henry yelled, still a few feet away and not even remotely surprised to find the two of them leaning up against a soda machine with Killian’s hand still firmly pushed underneath Emma’s shirt. 

“You give very good instructions,” Killian muttered over Emma’s shoulders and Henry rolled his eyes dramatically. 

“Everything ok, kid?” Emma asked, leaning to her side. And for a moment Killian was almost disappointed at his hand’s return to his side, but then she wrapped her fingers up in his and Henry eyed them both with a knowing smile. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he answered quickly, but his eyes betrayed ever worry he’d been trying not to give away. 

“Henry.”   
  
“Uncle David sent me to find you.”   
  
“Of course he did.”   
  
“Said he didn’t want you to miss anything.”   
  
“Maybe he should be more worried about what he’s missing while M’s gives birth and he’s preoccupied with my whereabouts.”   
  
“Swan,” Killian muttered, but she glared at him and he wasn’t really in a position to argue. Henry was openly laughing at them now. That lasted all of five seconds before his eyes moved back to their entwined hands and his shoulders shifted with a move that belied his age completely.

“So,” he said pointedly, the tone of his voice sounding almost identical to David’s when he’d shown up at the warehouse months ago. “You’re good now?”   
  
Emma gaped at her son, mouth hanging open and the baby window nurse was back, tapping on glass and mouthing  _ move _ at them, apparently overstaying their welcome. Henry didn’t budge – just stared straight at Killian. 

“Yeah,” Killian answered. “We’re good now.”   
  
“Good because Mom wasn’t.”   
  
“Henry!” Emma snapped and Killian squeezed her hand, eyes not leaving Henry’s. 

“That’s alright,” he said. “Neither was I.”

Henry nodded once and turned on his heels without another word, marching back down the hallway and leaving a slightly stunned Emma in his wake. Killian was, mostly, impressed – and glad someone loved Emma Swan as much as he did. 

“Come on, love,” he said, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as he started to move them down the hall. “Let’s go wait for a baby.”


	37. Chapter 37

“That was the worst. Let’s not do ever do that again, ok?”

Mary Margaret all but fell back on the small mountain of pillows behind her – procured by a very determined tandem of David and Killian who, collectively, could have charmed several major metropolitan hospitals out of their entire bedding collection. 

“Don’t let David hear you say that,” Emma said, shifting Leo Henry Nolan in her arms and pointedly ignoring Mary Margaret’s soft exclamation at the movement. “He wants a whole platoon of kids.”  
  
“Yeah, well he can have them then. Because this was the worst.”

“You know I would have expected a bit more positivity on this whole childbirth thing from you, M’s. I was pretty prepared for some sort of speech on how it changed your entire outlook on life and the world as a whole.”  
  
Mary Margaret narrowed her eyes dangerously at Emma and she might have shifted Leo Henry again, using him as some sort of just-born-a-few-hours-ago shield. “The epidural is wearing off. Ask me again in an hour when I’ve slept a little bit.”   
  
Henry Leo gurgled – as just-born-a-few-hours-ago babies are apt to do – and Emma crinkled her nose at the noise, glancing down at the vaguely perfect baby in her arms. And she almost hated herself for the flash of jealousy she felt shoot through her core at the sight – an exhausted, but somehow still gorgeous Mary Margaret a few feet away and David just outside the door, muttering quickly to Ruth on the phone he wasn’t actually supposed to be using inside the hospital. 

It was perfect. 

It was exactly what Emma knew would happen and exactly what she’d never had. 

Except, maybe, right now. 

Because for whatever she’d felt when Henry came into her life, the vague terror of  _ not being enough _ that seemed ingrained in the back of her mind, she’d found some sort of stability here with her brother and her sister-in-law and a newborn in her arms. 

And Killian Jones came back. 

“Where’d they go?” Mary Margaret mumbled, eyelids fluttering as she spoke and the adrenaline was definitely gone because she could hardly keep stop her head from burrowing a bit further into the pillow she was leaving against. 

“Who?”  
  
“You know who.”   
  
“Motherhood has made you very ambiguous.”   
  
Mary Margaret laughed softly and her eyes were absolutely closed at this point. “Henry and Killian. And was Ruby here too? I thought I heard heels.”

“How could you possibly hear heels when you were actually giving birth?” Emma asked, shaking her head in disbelief. Mary Margaret still hadn’t opened her eyes. 

“That didn’t answer my question.”   
  
“Go to sleep.” Mary Margaret’s eyes snapped open and she leveled Emma with a stare that screamed  _ tell me _ , not even bothering to actually say the words. She knew she didn’t have to. Emma did her best to stay her ground – but she was sitting down and there was a newborn in her arms and Mary Margaret couldn’t be denied when she had that kind of look on her face. “Ruby had to go back to the network to deal with post-filming stuff.”   
  
“And?”   
  
Leo Henry made another noise, tiny fist moving half an inch across his body and that was hardly fair – they couldn’t double team Emma like that. “And Henry and Killian went to find some sort of vending machine and caffeine for me.”   
  
“Together?”

“Well, they walked away together, so, yeah, I’d imagine together.”   
  
Mary Margaret’s eyebrows lifted meaningfully, but she didn’t say anything about what that meant or what it would mean or how her kid had told Killian where she was, staring at newborns with the kind of want Emma wasn’t sure she realized she even possessed. 

“So, you won, huh?” Mary Margaret muttered, half her mouth pressed into a pillow. 

“You’re actually asking me that, right now? You just had a baby.”   
  
“I’m curious.”   
  
“Of course you are,” Emma said, voice nearly cracking with emotion. The baby made another noise and there were tears running down her face before she realized it and she was an absolute mess. 

She was happy. 

And this was perfect. 

“And I’m proud of you too,” Mary Margaret added, smiling softly and reaching one arm out slowly. Emma stood up slowly, trying not to wake a suddenly asleep Leo Henry as she placed him in his mother’s arms and she was definitely still crying. 

“Is it super cheesy to say I’m proud of you too?”   
  
“Absolutely.”   
  
“Good to know.”

Emma sank back into the chair a few feet away from Mary Margaret’s bed, glancing back up a moment later to find she’d already fallen asleep. That might have been the most impressive thing she’d seen that afternoon. 

David twisted around the doorway half a second later, the smile on his face, apparently, carved there permanently. He sighed when he saw Mary Margaret and Emma’s heart clenched at the sight, the happiness in the tiny hospital room increasing tenfold as soon as he crossed the threshold. 

“She fell asleep in like two seconds,” Emma whispered, earning a surprised glance from her brother who, it seemed, hadn’t even noticed she was in the room. “It’s almost like giving birth to another human being is exhausting.”

He laughed underneath his breath and that smile was never going to come off his face – Emma was convinced. “She was incredible.”   
  
“Of course she was.”   
  
“I’m glad you got here. I didn’t want to interrupt filming for this.”   
  
“You can interrupt filming for this,” Emma said quickly. 

“Next time we have a kid I’ll keep that in mind.”   
  
Emma didn’t tell him about Mary Margaret’s earlier proclamation – almost certain it was the lack of epidural and post-labor haze talking – just nodded, shifting in the stiff, hospital-provided seat as she tried to find a position that didn’t leave her with something sticking in her back. 

“At the risk of ruining this moment, can I ask you a question?” David murmured, taking a step towards Emma and putting his hand on her shoulder. 

She twisted her eyebrows in response, a teasing smile on her face when she looked back up at him. “Jeez, got that dad pose down pat already, don’t you?”   
  
He widened his eyes, something that almost looked like frustration flashing in them, but it was a look he couldn't quite pull off with that stupid smile still etched on his face. “You're a sarcastic jerk, you know that?”

“David,” she chided him, grinning even wider. “There’s a baby present.”   
  
“He’s sleeping.”   
  
“He’ll probably do that for awhile. And I think you’re stalling.”   
  
“You look happy,” David said and Emma couldn’t have missed the meaning in those three words if she tried. She didn’t try. And she didn’t stop smiling either. 

“Yeah, well, when you become an aunt to a near-perfect baby, things like that are bound to happen.”   
  
“Emma.”   
  
“David.”

He opened his mouth to say something else – probably some sort of emotional lesson Emma wasn’t entirely certain she needed to hear, but he couldn’t get the sentiment out before he was interrupted by Henry, skidding into the room quickly with a pair of styrofoam cups in his hand. 

“There was no coffee anywhere,” he muttered, not quite able to keep his voice at whisper-level and earning a very quick  _ shhh _ from both David and Emma. 

“There are cups in your hand,” she argued. David chuckled softly, hand still on her shoulder as he twisted to glance over his shoulder. 

“This is hot chocolate. Straight.”

“Straight?” Emma repeated, only vaguely taken aback by the term. Henry looked nonplussed, blinking once. “Where did you learn that?”

“Will,” he said, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world. It was. And Emma, not for the first time that afternoon or even in the last few minutes, silently reprimanded herself for being so absolutely  _ stupid _ over the last two weeks.    
  
“I’ll take one of those,” she said, holding her hand out expectantly. 

Emma was exhausted. And happy. And it was a strange mixture to deal with coupled with the complete whirlwind that had been her conversation with Killian. 

She hadn’t told him she loved him. 

She wanted to tell him she loved him. 

And she wanted coffee. 

Henry seemed to sense her conflict and there was something deeper in that look – some reason in the way he grew up or what kind of relationship he had with Emma, but she was far too tired to even consider it. “Killian’s got the coffee,” he said, handing one of the cups to David who nearly groaned out loud at the gesture. “Or he was going to get the coffee.”   
  
Emma blinked once, glancing towards the door, hopeful that her coffee would simply materialize in front of her. It took two seconds longer. 

He smiled when his eyes met hers and she nearly jumped out of the chair at the sight – a mixture of nerves that belonged decades earlier and want that, seemed, to belong right there in that moment and Emma was positive she could feel actual electricity when she grabbed the cup out of his hands, balanced precariously in between his fingers. 

“Thank you,” she muttered gratefully, brushing her lips against his cheek and Killian’s entire body might have sagged at the movement. 

David definitely groaned at that. 

So did Henry. 

Mary Margaret stayed asleep. 

“Of course, love,” Killian said. His eyes darted over her shoulder, smile curling on the corner of his lips as soon as he saw Leo Henry and Emma’s heart might have actually exploded. It felt like it, at least. She was thankful she was in a hospital. 

He was next to her quickly, arm around her shoulder and Emma leaned against him without a second thought – all the reasons she was so exhausted in the first place melting away in the shift of his body and the feel of his forearm, leather jacket brushing up against her neck and the spot where she still wasn’t wearing her necklace. 

“Hey,” Henry said suddenly, pulling his eyes away from his almost-namesake. “Can we get some food?”   
  
“Didn’t you get food just now?” Emma asked. “That was the point of that quest, wasn’t it?” 

“Quest?”   
  
Emma shrugged. “I take it you didn’t find food.”   
  
“It was all gross.”   
  
“Gross?”   
  
“It is a hospital, Swan,” Killian muttered. “Not exactly a ton of choices available.”   
  
“And Henry’s very picky,” she added, making a face at her son for good measure. He met her twisted mouth for twisted mouth, eyes flashing up towards hers. 

Emma grabbed his shoulder, tugging him towards her and he only objected a little bit, trying to save face in front of Killian and David and, likely, the sleeping baby in front of him who shared his name. “We can go get some food,” she said, hand flattening his hair out of instinct. “We should let David stare longingly at his kid without us around anyway.”

David mumbled something under his breath, narrowing his eyes slightly at Emma. “You were the one who wanted to hold him two seconds after you walked in the door,” he said, grabbing the only other chair in the room and dragging it a few inches away from Mary Margaret. “And no one is kicking you out.”   
  
“I’ve got to feed my kid.”

“I’m starving,” Henry sighed, working an eye roll out of David. Emma felt Killian laugh against her, the side of his body shaking against hers. 

“See, he’s starving. It’s very dramatic.”   
  
“Mom.”   
  
“We can stop on the way home,” Emma said. “You ate all the leftovers in the fridge yesterday. And, if the empty box of cereal in the cabinet was any indication, all of that this morning too.”   
  
Killian’s arms tightened around Emma’s shoulder and he was trying hard not to laugh. David wasn’t even trying, head thrown back at the ceiling and the smile was threatening to snap his jaw in half. 

“Yeah, yeah, laugh now,” Emma hissed, doing her best not to wake the newborn that was still, miraculously, asleep. “Talk to me a decade from now when that kid is eating you out of your entire apartment.”   
  
“So dramatic,” David said, voice shaking. 

Henry’s stomach audibly grumbled and his entire face flushed at the sound. David bit down on his lip tightly, eyes squeezed shut as he tried to keep from actually dissolving into some sort of fit in the middle of a hospital room and Emma sighed – chock-full of the drama she’d just been accused of. 

“Come on kid,” she said, grabbing on the edge of Henry’s sleeve. His face was still red. “Let’s get some food.” He nodded once, glancing quickly at Leo Henry and the look on his face sent a shockwave through Emma’s entire being. David had, finally, stopped laughing, arms still crossed over his chest, but they’d loosened just a bit as he slid farther down the chair, legs stretched out in front of him and some sort of contented look on his face. 

She’d never quite seen her brother look like that. 

“You want me to bring you something?” Emma asked and David was shaking his head before she’d even got the question out. 

“We’re like seventy blocks away from home.”   
  
“I’d come back.”

“I know you would,” David said, grinning at her. “We’ll be fine. Anyway, I’ve got a schedule jam-packed with longing and an overwhelming amount of paternal emotion. So, I’m going to be pretty busy.”   
  
Emma groaned, but her pulse might have speed up at the idea of David Nolan-father and this picture-perfect family that had taken up residence in hospital room 7C. “Ok,” she muttered, taking a step forward to brush the back of her knuckle over Leo Henry’s arm. He made some sort of  _ baby noise _ that Emma wouldn’t have actually been able to describe under normal circumstances, let alone the ones that were pushing tears down her cheeks again. 

She should have stopped to take her makeup off – she’d been too busy practically sprinting off set. 

“Bye Uncle David,” Henry said, practically sprinting back into to the hallway and – from the exclamation a few feet away – nearly colliding with a nurse in the process. 

Emma shook her head, but didn’t follow immediately, wavering on her feet with a sudden tug towards the newborn a few feet away that made her feel as if she were rooted to the tiled floor. She didn’t want to leave. 

“Go feed him,” David said, reading her mind as well as Mary Margaret had before she’d fallen asleep. “We’ll be fine. I’ll send some pictures if he wakes up or manages to do anything spectacular.”   
  
She resisted the urge to say he was  _ already _ spectacular, simply because he was there, but David’s contented smile made it seem as if he already knew. And Emma had clearly missed out on the psychic gene in her family. 

Her laugh was shaky at best and she was definitely still crying and no one said a word about that, or the way Killian tugged her out of the hospital room, arm still slung tightly around her shoulder. Henry bobbed on his feet just outside the door, eyes wide when they landed on Emma. “Food?” he asked. 

“Don’t they let you eat at school? I know I gave you food today.”   
  
Henry rolled his eyes again and parenting a teenager, it seemed, was a brand-new challenge. “It’s dinner time.”

“So let’s go to the store. Or grab some food, that’s fine.” Henry rolled back on his heels again and his eyes moved away from Emma quickly, gaze landing on Killian’s arm and his hand and he pressed his lips together for a moment. “What?” Emma asked. “No good?”   
  
“I was just thinking…”   
  
“Sure,” Killian said and that wasn’t fair. 

She needed to figure out how to read minds. 

“Sure what?” Emma sputtered, head snapping up and he was smiling nearly as wide as David had been, like he’d been waiting for this moment. 

Killian didn’t say anything, just smiled even more and nodded towards Henry. “I was thinking we could go to The Jolly,” he said quickly, the words rolling together in his desperation to get them out. 

Emma’s mouth hung open and she should have thought that to begin with. “Oh,” she said softly, a wholly ridiculous response. 

“Oh?” Killian repeated and she couldn’t tell if that was disappointment or surprise etched in his voice. 

“Can’t we go Mom?” Henry asked. “We haven’t in awhile and Killian said there was a ton of dessert stuff in the kitchen.”   
  
“Dessert stuff?   
  
Killian shrugged and it was definitely surprise mixed with embarrassment now, cheeks tinged red when he looked at Emma. “It’s been a long two weeks.”   
  
She nodded slowly, understanding seeping into every corner of her. “Yeah, we can do that,” Emma said, not looking away from Killian. “As long as that’s cool with you?”   
  
“Of course, Swan.”   
  
“Ok.”   
  
“Cool,” Henry said, not waiting for any more emotional revelations in the middle of the hallway before turning towards the lobby around the corner. Killian’s fingers laced through Emma’s as they followed behind him and she didn’t need to be a mind reader to know he was smiling. 

She was too. 

* * *

“Are you Emma Swan?”

Emma glanced up, cup held halfway between her mouth and the table she’d taken up residence at a few minutes before. She nodded quickly, pushing back on the chair she was sitting in and thrusting her hand out towards the woman in front of her. “That’s me,” she said and she was nervous, metaphorical butterflies settling in the pit of her stomach. 

“Ruby’s very good at descriptions,” the woman laughed, taking Emma’s hand with a smile on her face. “She absolutely called you drinking coffee.”   
  
Emma’s scoffed. “It’s, technically, a coffee-hot chocolate hybrid.”   
  
“Ah, she didn’t mention that.”   
  
“She’s not quite as all-knowing as she likes to think she is.”   
  
The woman laughed, hooking her foot around the other chair at the table and sinking down into it, tossing the bag she’d had on her shoulder on the ground next to her. “You come up with that drink recipe?”   
  
“Right into the interview, huh?” Emma asked, hoping her laughter helped mask the vague sense of terror she felt at even the idea of this. 

Ruby promised it  _ would be fine, _  the questions weren’t going to be  _ too _ personal – ”It’s all out there already, Emma,” she said two days before when Emma had been forced back into the studio to film the talking head she’d ditched in favor of her nephew’s arrival. “This is just your chance to provide the information on your terms.” – and Killian had been nothing if not consistently supportive, very clearly doing his best to make amends for the two weeks before. She appreciated that. 

The woman laughed again, nodding towards a waiter and earning an almost-immediate glass of water for the look. She narrowed her eyes appraisingly at Emma, but shook her head, grabbing her phone out of her bag and placing it lightly on the table. It was recording. 

“I’d rather just talk,” she said. “And I’m Aurora, by the way. If Ruby didn’t mention that.”

Emma took a deep breath, lip tugged tightly between her teeth. “She didn’t. I’d introduce myself too, but that seems kind of counterproductive. She also didn’t mention how you two knew each other or how you managed to fit me into your schedule.”

“That would suggest I have some sort of jam-packed schedule.”  
  
“Don’t you?”   
  
“Don’t you?” Aurora countered and Emma liked her. She hadn’t expected that. 

“Not today. I filmed earlier this week”   
  
“A fact I’m very grateful for. You won, didn’t you? The all-star thing, I mean?” Emma nodded, certain Ruby had given this reporter the complete pre-interview rundown on her life in the network studios. “I can’t put that in the article though, Ruby will kill me if I give up that kind of information before it airs.”   
  
“Zelena would probably bring you back to life just so she can kill you too.”   
  
Aurora grinned at her, fingers tapping on the side of her water glass. “You’re funny,” she said and it felt a little bit like a label. “And I met Ruby approximately eight thousand years ago when we were at school together.”

Emma nodded, hoping to work some sort of college-age Ruby story out of this interview. “I’m sarcastic,” she corrected. “Not funny.”   
  
“Eh, same thing.”   
  
“Is it?”   
  
“What do you have to be sarcastic about?”

The interview was in full-swing now and Aurora could say all she wanted about  _ just talking, _  but these were questions and that was bordering on personal and Emma needed another cup of coffee, heavy on the hot chocolate. “It’s not my recipe,” she said and Aurora’s eyebrows nearly flew off her forehead. “The drink. I didn’t come up with it. My brother did.”   
  
“You’ve got a brother?”  
  
“See, I knew this was an interview.”   
  
“People want to know, Emma,” Aurora said slowly, like they’d known each other for years and not just stumbled into this meeting in a midtown coffee shop because Ruby had set it up a few days before. “People like you.”   
  
“Yeah, enough to run multi-page spreads in national tabloids,” she muttered bitterly. 

“You know, I know that guy.”   
  
Emma snapped her head up. “What guy?”   
  
“The one who wrote your story. Isaac what’s-his-face. He’s been working for that magazine for years, can never seem to get anything more legitimate. He must have sold his soul for that tip.”   
  
“Would you have?” Emma asked. 

Aurora shook her head immediately. “No,” she said and the certainty in her voice almost made Emma feel comfortable. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s a fantastic story. You’re a fantastic story, but I wouldn’t want to run it like that. Paint some sort of picture of you as this...what was the headline they used?”   
  
“Jailbird.”   
  
“See, that’s just ridiculous. Bird puns? It’s like clickbait come to life.”   
  
Emma took a sip of her drink, disappointed to find she’d, somehow, already finished it and it was no wonder Ruby promised her it would be fine. She liked Aurora – appreciated her to-the-point personality and whatever type of conversation they were having – and Ruby absolutely knew it would play out like that. 

“He wasn’t wrong though,” Emma said. “Although jailbird does make it sound like I broke out of jail. I didn’t.”   
  
“That’s good to know,” Aurora laughed. 

“Eight months,” Emma continued, knowing full-well that she hadn’t actually been asked a question. “It was eight months and it was just...lonely? I turned eighteen in a cell by myself. But, I guess, there was a silver lining? If you can call it that. They offered classes, you know, like tech school?” Aurora nodded and Emma kept talking and it felt like some sort of weight off her shoulders. 

“They had a cooking class. You couldn’t really do much because they couldn’t really give utensils, but it was a start. I’d always been interested in it, but it was mostly this kind of outsider’s perspective mixed with a dash of wonder.”   
  
“Wonder?”   
  
Emma nodded, taking a deep breath through her nose before she spoke. “I grew up in foster care when I was little and I never starved or anything, but being able to cook, to take care of myself like that was something I could never quite imagine. I got really lucky when I was older, ended up with my mom and my brother and lived there for five years and she was like other levels of cooking. But to be able to do that myself, and find out I was good at it, was something I didn’t quite expect.”   
  
“So,” she continued, licking her suddenly dry lips, “I took the class and I was good and this idea kind of took root in the back of my mind.”   
  
“You went to culinary school, didn’t you?” Aurora asked. 

“Yeah, but that was all my brother. He helped pay for it to start and let me and my son stay with him when we first came to New York.”   
  
“Sounds like a good guy.”   
  
“The best.”   
  
“Is that why you picked the charity you did? For the all-star competition?”   
  
Emma blinked and she should have expected this – journalists did background before an interview didn’t they? She had no idea. 

Ruby should have prepared her better for this. 

“It is,” Emma said, surprised how easy it was to lay out personal facts on the metaphorical and literal table. “He’s kind of my hero.” She shrugged and Aurora smiled. 

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Isn’t that why you’re here?”   
  
“Figured it was better to kind of ease into the dramatics,” Aurora said. 

“How much did Ruby actually tell you?”   
  
Aurora chuckled, flipping her hair off her shoulder and sitting up just a bit straighter when she looked at Emma. “Do you think you should get your show back?”   
  
“That’s not up to me,” Emma said. “But I want my show back. I’ve always wanted my show. I love my show and I love what it’s done for me and my family. I never quite expected that, but it’s become one of the biggest things in my entire life.”

“What about Killian Jones?”   
  
She should have expected it. 

She should have known. 

She should have realized they’d end up here. 

She just hadn’t expected to get there quite so quickly. 

Emma took another deep breath, teeth sinking into the side of her tongue until it nearly hurt and she twisted her hair around her finger. 

“What about him?” she asked and her voice was practically saturated with emotion. 

“You two aren’t…”

Aurora trailed off and that had to be breaking some kind of journalistic rule, because she hadn’t actually asked a question and she clearly wanted an answer. And they should have prepared better for this, should have talked about it, at least, once in the last three days. 

They hadn’t. 

They’d left the hospital three days ago and gone back to The Jolly and Will had insisted on root beer floats and cheeseburgers and Emma had followed Killian into the kitchen, more because she couldn’t quite bear the thought of not, leaning on the far wall while he made them all food that wasn’t actually on the menu. 

And they certainly hadn’t talked about it the day before – an afternoon that saw Henry at school and an open schedule that didn’t require either one of them to leave his apartment or his couch or the small spot they’d taken up there, wrapped up in each other for hours. She’d told him she loved him, whispered the words in his ear and he’d kissed her in response, hand moving across her hip and down her leg and they’d moved off the couch at that point. 

They picked Henry up from school together and they were only a few minutes late. 

“Emma?” Aurora asked, snapping her out of memories that absolutely didn’t belong in print.

“Yeah?”   
  
“Was that a ‘yeah’ to my first or second question?”   
  
She really was a good journalist. And Emma was backed into some sort of metaphorical corner. “Both?”   
  
“You sound uncertain.”   
  
“I’m not.”   
  
“No?”   
  
“No.”   
  
“Huh,” Aurora muttered, leaning her head on her hand. “I wouldn’t have expected that.”

And Emma didn’t expect that. “Really? We haven’t exactly been trying to hide it.”   
  
“Yeah, that’s what Ruby said.”   
  
“Wait, wait, Ruby said that?”   
  
Aurora shrugged, tapping on her phone screen to make sure it was still recording. It was. “She said I should ask you about the relationship – and she used that word by the way. But I kind of had my doubts. I thought it might have just been a TV thing.”   
  
“It’s not.”   
  
“I’m glad.” This was a strange conversation, full of revelations Emma didn’t expect herself to divulge and a journalist that made it far too easy to talk. Aurora smiled knowingly at her, like she understood whatever sort of internal dilemma she was staging. “It’s just...I watched some of the stuff you’ve done in the last couple of months before this interview, so I had some background, and I watched the holiday episode of your show.”

Of course. 

It always seemed to come back to the holiday episode. 

“He’s a really good guy,” Emma said and she sounded every bit like a fifteen-year-old, gushing over her date to prom. Aurora lifted her eyebrows, smile tilting up one side of her mouth. 

“Yeah?”   
  
“Better than I expected.”   
  
Emma didn’t stop talking for the next five minutes – a font of Killian Jones information Aurora hadn’t really asked for, but didn’t stop her from providing. She talked about the restaurant and the expansion and how he’d helped teach her kid how to save a soccer ball without running into the goal post along the way. 

She talked and talked and gushed and then talked some more. 

And Aurora just kept nodding, that smile plastered on her face and Emma actually said she was in love. On record. With a phone recording her words. Aurora’s smile faltered a bit at that, eyes widening a fraction of an inch like she hadn’t entirely been ready for that tidbit of information. Neither had Emma. 

“He’s a really good guy,” Emma said again, a quiet affirmation that seemed to wrap up the Killian Jones fan club she was dictating. 

“You’re happy,” Aurora said and it didn’t feel like an accusation. It felt like a statement. A true one. She hoped that made it in print too. 

“I am.”   
  
“Good.”   
  
Aurora clicked off her phone and paid for Emma’s coffee-hot chocolate hybrid, thanking her for her time and promising to send her an early copy of the magazine. And she was gone in a flash of shiny, brown hair and that bag flung back over her shoulder and Emma was, suddenly, wide-eyed and a bit surprised with what she’d just done. 

She’d said  _ I love him  _ on record. 

They should have planned for this interview better. 

Emma nearly ran into The Jolly Roger an hour later – another cup of coffee clutched in her hand – and Will practically cackled at her. “Where’s the fire?” he asked, leaning on the edge of the bar and she barely had a moment to realize Belle was sitting in front of him. 

“Where’s Killian?”

“Upstairs.”

Emma started running again, twisting and turning through tables and swinging open the kitchen door. Eric gaped at her, but Ariel just laughed, sitting on the edge of the counter in the middle of the room, hand resting lightly on her stomach and Emma made a mental note to ask about  _ that _ when she wasn’t possibly having some sort of mental breakdown. 

“He’s upstairs,” she muttered, nodding towards the door in the back corner of the kitchen. 

Emma nodded once, not even slowing down when Eric asked about the interview. Everyone knew everything in this restaurant. She landed on his doorstep three seconds later – taking the stairs two at a time – and Emma wasn’t sure if she should knock. 

She took a deep breath, fingers wrapping around the doorknob, but she didn’t have a chance to make any sort of decision before the door swung open and Killian was standing in front of her – wearing a t-shirt and jeans and a smile that absolutely did not make her knees go weak. That would have been ridiculous. 

“Swan,” he said, reaching out to grab her forearm. “What are you doing here?”   
  
“I need to talk to you.”

“You could have just come in, you know,” he laughed, taking a step back when Emma’s hand landed on his chest. 

“I didn’t want to interrupt.”   
  
“What exactly did you think I was doing?” Emma shrugged and his head tilt spoke volumes, fingers drifting across the back of her wrist. Killian raised an eyebrow at her and they’d somehow managed to wander into the kitchen because life was nothing if not one, long string of ridiculous signs and metaphors. “What’s going on, love?”   
  
“I told a magazine I loved you.”

“You told a magazine?” Emma nodded. “Like the actual paper?”   
  
Emma groaned, taking a step back and she’d absolutely interrupted something, eyes falling on a pile of papers on the coffee table in his living room. “What were you doing?” she asked, nodding towards the paperwork and something that actually looked like a checkbook. 

“Nothing,” Killian brushed off quickly. “You’re the one who came barreling in here.”   
  
“I hardly barreled. I didn’t even open the door.”

“Semantics.”  
  
“I had that interview today,” Emma sighed, stuffing her hands in her pockets. “And she asked about a whole bunch of stuff and I told her a whole bunch of stuff and it was really easy to talk to her…”   
  
“That seems like a good thing, Swan.”   
  
“But it might not be. I told her about you. She asked about you and us and I gave her an answer to all of it.”   
  
He was openly smirking at her now, leaning back against his problematic oven with one arm crossed over his chest, the other elbow resting on his wrist and his fingers tapping thoughtfully on his chin. “Well, you weren’t lying,” Killian said slowly and Emma got the distinct impression he was trying to make sure he didn’t laugh at her again. 

“I know.”   
  
“So?”   
  
“So we never actually talked about it. The public thing.”   
  
“We weren’t exactly trying to hide it, Swan,” he reasoned. “They were trying to play it for ratings on the network.”   
  
“Yeah, but I said  _ I love you _ on the record.” She couldn’t understand why he wasn’t getting this. This was a big deal – the biggest deal. She was all in on this, all in on him and  _ whatever _ that meant and whatever she wanted. It’d probably be a pull-quote in the article. 

“And I appreciate that,” Killian said. “Would you like me to go on the record too? I would.”   
  
He was laughing again and Emma was, frustratingly, charmed by it. It was the t-shirt, she reasoned, no one should be able to look that good in something that had a Manchester United logo on it. 

Emma groaned again and he was in front of her in two and a half steps, hands on her waist and that stupid smirk on his face. “I love you too,” he said softly. Her knees were still weak. 

“That’s good since it’s in print now.”   
  
Killian huffed out a laugh, eyes widening for a beat before he ducked his head and kissed her, hand on her jaw and prosthetic still anchored on her waist and Emma was glad she’d worn heels to the interview. 

Emma’s shoulders moved dramatically when he pulled away – trying to get the air back in her lungs and a bit of perspective back in her mind because she absolutely couldn’t spend the rest of the night kissing him in the middle of his kitchen. He’d barely even moved away though and that was a very distinct type of distraction, lips ghosting over her jaw when he talked again. 

“What were you worried about, Swan?”

She shrugged, not sure she could actually voice what it was – or if she wanted to. She’d done enough emotion for the day. “Hey,” Killian said softly, thumb tucking under her chin so Emma had to look up at him. “It’s ok. Good, even. You know that, right? I’m not going anywhere.”   
  
And there it was. 

Four words and too many letters to try and count when he was staring at her like that – eyes wide and imploring, trying to make sure she understood. 

Killian Jones came back. 

Or never really left. 

“I love you,” he said again and, this time, Emma kissed  _ him _ and maybe they did have time for this. 

“I love you too,” she muttered, forehead resting against his. 

His eyes did that ridiculous, emotional thing they’d been doing for the last three days – since he’d shown up in the hospital hallway – like he couldn’t quite believe she was still there and talking to him and Emma made noise in the back of her throat when he took a step away from her. 

“How’d the rest of it go?” he asked. “The interview, I mean?”

“I talked a lot.”   
  
“I’m sure the reporter appreciated it. That’s usually how those things go. You’re ok, though? With the talking?”   
  
Emma’s heart thudded in her chest, like it was beating out a double rhythm at the sound of the concern in his voice. He cared and he loved her and he came back. Aurora was right – she was happy. 

“That was the point,” she rationalized. “To give my side or whatever. I guess we just let the metaphorical chips fall where they may at this point or whatever  cliché you want to use.”   
  
“You’ll get your show back, Swan,” Killian said, the determination in his voice catching her off guard. 

“Even if I don’t, it’ll be ok. I mean, there’s more to life than network TV, right?” Killian nodded slowly, but something was off and Emma leaned against the countertop until it pressed into her back. “I told her something else too.”   
  
“Who?”   
  
“The reporter. I told her something else. About you.” He raised his eyebrows and, somehow, she could make out the noise from the kitchen downstairs, dinner prep starting. “I told her about the expansion. I know I shouldn’t have, but I mean, you know, it could be good publicity or something. Fifty tables is a lot.”

Emma tried to keep her voice light, joking about fifty tables she was positive he’d be able to fill even without her few sentences of promotion in a magazine, but his eyes dulled at the words and she could see his throat move when he swallowed. 

“What’s the matter?” Emma asked. 

“You probably shouldn’t have done that,” he muttered and she’d never heard his voice sound like that, the distinct note of confidence she’d come to associate with Killian, completely lacking in the whispered words. 

“I mean, I know you didn’t officially announce anything, but it could be good, you know? Especially...especially after what you told Gold in December. Publicity is good, right?”

“You knew about December?”   
  
“You can’t tell my brother anything.”

Killian laughed, staring at the floor underneath his feet and he wasn’t wearing sneakers. She took a step towards him, tugging on the front of his t-shirt lightly until his eyes met hers and that nagging feeling was back – he wasn’t telling her something. “Talk to me,” she said. “Does it have something to do with all those papers over there?”   
  
“You’re very smart, Swan.”   
  
“Talk.”   
  
He took a deep breath, prosthetic falling back on her waist again as he nodded once, like he was psyching himself up for the conversation. “There’s no expansion,” he said quickly and the words settled in Emma’s stomach like a weight. “Not anymore.”   
  
“What?”

Killian smiled lightly at her, jaw ticking and now both hands were on her waist again, tugging her closer to him. “I wouldn’t do that,” he said and Emma’s head was spinning. 

“Do what? I don’t understand.

“I told Gold the next day. That I wanted out completely. But it’s not quite that simple. There was, actually, a contract and a payment schedule and a fairly considerable amount of money involved. That’s what the papers are, figuring out holdings and how we could come up with the rest of it to, basically, buy him out.”   
  
“We?” Emma repeated. 

Killian nodded. “Me and Robin. He’s, I don’t know, partner sounds ridiculous. But he’s about a quarter of the money.”   
  
Emma tugged her lips back behind her teeth, not entirely certain how she was still standing up – what with the weight in her stomach and the wave of information she was practically drowning in. 

He’d given it up. 

He’d told Gold the next day. She’d ignored every one of his calls and he’d still done it. 

“But,” she sputtered and he was still smiling at her, fingers brushing underneath the bottom of her shirt. “Why? I mean, it was half done. It had to be at least half done, right? Why would you just give that up?”   
  
Killian stared at her, disbelief clouding the blue in his eyes. “I couldn’t, Swan,” he said. “I couldn’t go back there and  _ make _ something there when I knew what it cost you. I wouldn’t do that. So I told Gold and I told him he’d get his money and I’ll figure it out.”  
  
“You’ll figure it out?”   
  
“Do you not see those piles of papers? That’s the figuring it out.”   
  
Emma didn’t know what to say – couldn’t remember a time when anyone in her entire life had ever given up anything quite like that  _ for her _ . He’d done it for her or because of her or something so deep in emotion and commitment, she could hardly even process it. 

She didn’t say anything, just threw her arms around his neck and appreciated his quick intake of breath and kissed him like she was coming up for air. His fingers pressed against the back of her head, threading her way through her ponytail and Emma’s hand fell back to his side, tugging on the t-shirt until it was halfway lifted up his body. 

He pressed against her, hooking his arm around her leg until she was balancing on one heel and her skirt was twisted and she couldn’t breathe. And she didn’t care. 

She was glad she said she loved him on record.

“Cap,” Eric said, banging on the other side of the door a few feet away from them. “You ready to start cooking?”   
  
Killian groaned, letting Emma settle back on two feet before he looked at her, eyes burning with a slew of words and feelings that would have sounded ridiculous when said out loud. He looked like he wanted her. 

And didn’t want to be cooking. 

“Cap?” Eric repeated. “A’s started seating people, so we should probably get going.”   
  
“Yeah,” Killian said quickly, not taking his eyes off Emma. “I’ll be right there.”   
  
“Ok.”   
  
Emma heard the sous chef’s steps retreat back down the stairs and her hand was still pressed underneath Killian’s t-shirt. “You want to stick around for a little while?” he asked. “Unless you’ve got to get Henry.”

She shook her head – the weight in her stomach somehow not preventing it from doing flips at the hopeful tone of his voice. “He’s doing a group project thing at Violet’s. I don’t have to get him until later.”   
  
“Violet, huh?”   
  
“Don’t talk about it. I’ll just go into crazy-mom mode and I can’t imagine that’s something you’d be a fan of.”   
He lowered his eyebrows at her, surprise etched into the corner of his eyes. “Why would you say that, Swan? I’m a fan of every part of you.”

She rolled her eyes, but he wasn’t joking, eyes practically boring a hole in her head with the strength of his sincerity. “You ok?” she asked. “I mean, about The Jolly. I...it just doesn’t seem fair.”   
  
Killian smiled at her, nodding once and she almost believed him. “I’m fine, love. Anyway, I’ve got plenty to do here and Gina wants some sort of IC comeback tour after the crab debacle, so it’s a pretty jam-packed schedule.”   
  
Emma sighed, but didn’t push – certain she was treading on some sort of thin ice and years of well-practiced sarcasm as a deflecting tool. “Ok,” she mumbled, kissing his cheek lightly before nodding towards the door. “Come on, before Eric comes up here and personally drags you into the kitchen.”   
  
“It’s because Ari’s gotten very demanding in the last few weeks.”   
  
“Yeah, I meant to ask you about that.”   
  
“Oh,” he said, sounding like he was surprised Emma didn’t already know. “Ari’s pregnant.”

He grinned at her over his shoulder, brushing around her to swing open the apartment door and Emma gasped, eyes going wide with the news. And she realized something in that moment – she’d found something in this restaurant three blocks away from her house, bigger than just a good makeout location. 

She’d found another home – another family and people she cared about and a man she loved a nearly ridiculous amount. 

And she was going to make sure he was happy too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the No-More-Secrets-About-Anything club. We're all out of the angst and everything's pretty much on the table and they're just going to keep making out places. As always I am constantly blown away by the response to this story and how absolutely fantastic every single one of you is. 
> 
> Also, shameless self promotion: My CSBB starts posting tomorrow so, for the next few months, I'll be absolutely spamming you guys with words. 
> 
> Come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	38. Chapter 38

It was packed. 

And Ariel was sick. 

And Eric was a nervous mess and Killian was trying to make sure he didn’t send out burnt food to his packed restaurant. 

It almost seemed like some sort of enormous joke. 

He told Emma about the expansion – or lack thereof – a week before and the look on her face had been exactly what he’d been trying to avoid when he’d decided not to tell her. She looked guilty. She looked guilty every time she walked into The Jolly and while he certainly appreciated the number of times she  _ had  _ walked into his restaurant in the last week, Killian couldn’t quite handle the way her eyes dimmed when they took in the smaller-than-the-warehouse dining room. 

And the restaurant was still packed – reservations still flooding in despite coming up short of actually winning the stupid all-star competition and notching his first Iron Chef loss and Regina might actually be driving him crazy, muttering about  _ getting back on track _ with filming every time she saw him. 

She saw him a lot – especially since Ariel had been sick the last two days, taking over as hostess without actually being asked and dictating seating arrangements with a kind of gusto Killian should have expected from her. 

A voice shouted his name and Killian snapped his head back, glancing over his shoulder to find Robin staring at him, something almost looking like excitement on his face. “You’re not supposed to be back here,” Killian muttered, flipping vegetables in the pan in front of him. “Just because your wife’s taking over my restaurant doesn’t mean you can just start going wherever you want.”  
  
“Oh, bad mood, huh?” Robin laughed, weaving his way through a small army of wait staff and the rest of the somehow-still functioning kitchen. 

Killian grunted in response – a wholly unacceptable answer for a guy who didn’t actually freak out when he’d told him what he’d done with his money and his plans while he’d been on his honeymoon. And while Killian appreciated the determination Robin seemed to find when facing the very particular challenge of paying off Gold and avoiding some sort of breach of contract suit while also managing to not declare bankruptcy, his positivity was starting to get on Killian’s nerves. 

Because the restaurant was still packed and the expansion could have worked – would have worked – if it weren’t for Gold and that story and if he hadn’t been such an idiot and told Emma in the first place. 

And she kept looking guilty. 

He was a disaster. 

They shouldn’t let him near open flames or very expensive kitchen appliances – mind far too preoccupied with thoughts of Emma and money and how vaguely terrifying it was to consider that maybe just having her was enough. 

Overwhelming. 

That was the word they’d used. 

“Not a bad mood,” Killian muttered. “Gina, however, doesn’t understand the concept of staggering tables quite yet and we’re bordering a bit close on drowning.”  
  
Robin gazed at him evenly – mouth ticking up and Killian knew the lie had been picked up easily. He wished Emma would stop looking so guilty. He wished she didn’t feel as if he’d given something up for her. 

He’d do it again. 

In a heartbeat. 

With or without Robin’s money. 

“Drowning in tables and customers and order demands or in that very large stack of financial paperwork still sitting on your coffee table?” Robin asked, biting an orange slice that should have been part of some sort of braise Eric was supposed to be in charge of. 

“Cap, your vegetables are going to burn,” the sous chef mumbled and Killian blinked once, shaking out thoughts of Emma’s face and that seemingly growing pile of paperwork on his coffee table upstairs.   
  
“Got it, got it,” he said, voice rough with the frustration he knew he wasn’t hiding at all. He turned down the flame on the oven in front of him, nodding towards Eric who took over – plating out the meal for a table Regina had seated ahead of their reservation. 

Robin hadn’t moved an inch and friendship was absolutely overrated because he wasn’t going to move until Killian talked to him – emotions laid out on the metaphorical table in the middle of an overbooked dinner service. 

“I don’t have time for this,” Killian said, eyeing Robin as he wiped his hands on the front of his apron. 

“Make time,” Robin said and there was no room for argument in those two words. Killian narrowed his eyes and Robin didn’t blink, just stared at him expectantly like he knew he’d won the argument already. 

“What do you want?”  
  
“You need to come out. Like five minutes ago.”  
  
“I’m kind of busy.”  
  
“Eric can take care of it for a little while. You can take care of it, can’t you Eric?” The sous chef groaned, not even bothering to look up from the plates in front of him and Robin flashed Killian a smile. “See,” he said, confidence nearly exuding out of him. “He can take care of it. Trust me, you want to come talk.”  
  
He didn’t. 

He didn’t want to come talk unless it was Emma and he could tell her to stop feeling so guilty about the expansion. He had a strong suspicion it wasn’t Emma, though, fairly certain she hadn’t been lying about taking Henry to tryouts for another soccer league that night. 

Robin kept smiling at him and nodded once, grabbing another orange slice on his way back out of the kitchen. Killian sighed, glancing back at a very stressed out Eric before he followed. “If I’m not back here in ten minutes it’s because I’ve taken over control of seating from Regina and she’s trying to kill me,” he shouted over his shoulder. 

And he thought he actually heard Eric laugh. “Aye aye, Cap.”

Killian nearly ran into three different waiters before he noticed Robin in his usual seat at the end of the bar, Will pouring something into three glasses and talking to the other man in the seat in front of him.

Fuck. 

David Nolan was sitting at his bar – without a Mary Margaret buffer or an Emma buffer or, even, a Henry buffer. 

And Killian was not in a good mood. 

He was not in the mood for this. 

He’d thought he’d avoided it at the hospital, certain the arrival of Leo Henry Nolan was more than enough to push his own problems with Emma from David’s vaguely overprotective mind. He was, apparently, wrong. 

He wiped his hands on his apron again and nodded towards Will, an unspoken cry for rum that didn’t actually need to be voiced out loud. Will grimaced at him – swapping out the scotch in his hand – for a bottle Killian usually only saved for major moments and that first time Emma had come to The Jolly months ago. 

“Sergeant,” Killian said, sinking into the seat on David’s right side and grabbing the glass as soon as Will put it down.   
  
“Not until next week,” David corrected. “The ceremony’s not until next week.”

Killian nodded slowly, taking a sip of the rum and it felt like a shot through his system, waking him up a bit. “I didn’t think you’d leave your apartment for weeks. How is tiny-Nolan doing since you got home?”  
  
“Good. Really good actually. I mean, he never sleeps and Emma thinks that’s vaguely hysterical, but I guess it’s kind of payback because she lived with Ruth the first year Henry was born and he was sleeping through the night by the time they got to us.”  
  
He snapped his jaw shut quickly, eyes going wide for a fraction of a second like he was nervous he’d given up too much information. “I knew that,” Killian said, voice going soft without his actual permission and both Robin and Will were laughing openly at him now. 

“Really?” David asked, not even trying to mask the surprise in his tone. 

“Yeah, we’re trying this whole no-secrets thing. It’s going pretty ok.”  
  
David pursed his lips, eyes darting towards Robin who tried to nod encouragingly and Will absolutely had other customers to deal with at the other end of the bar. He didn’t seem particularly interested in any of them. And Killian couldn’t shake that feeling of anxiety from the back of his mind. 

“What’s going on?” he asked. 

“It’s a good thing,” Robin said and David nodded quickly. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” David repeated. “And it’s not really a secret. So much as Emma demanding things of me. I’m not very good at saying no when she gets that authoritative tone in her voice and she’s kind of terrifying when she wants something.”

Killian smiled – possibly the first time he’d done  _ that _ all night – and David huffed out a deep breath, like he’d been holding the oxygen in his lungs for the last two minutes. “I do know that,” he said, images of narrowed green eyes and a confident smile and the way she moved when she was in a kitchen flashing through his memory. 

“Well, anyway,” David continued – Will’s laughter in the background nearly drowning out his voice and Killian knew he must have looked like the slightly lovesick boyfriend he absolutely was. “Emma showed up at our apartment about a week ago with a demand to hold Leo Henry for no less than ten minutes straight and for me to use police resources for your benefit.”  
  
And out of all the things that she could have demanded, Killian hadn’t been entirely prepared for either of them. 

“What?” he asked, practically croaking out the word. 

David shrugged. “She’s obsessed with tiny-Nolan and Mary Margaret was asleep and Emma’s a lot better at getting  _ him _ to fall asleep than I am, which is something she’s made sure to point out every time she manages to do it.”   
  
“Yeah, that’s not what I meant.”    
  
“I know.”    
  
“So?”    
  
“So,” David repeated. “I did what she asked.”    
  
“Are you talking in riddles on purpose or just to get a rise out of me? Because I thought we’d kind of moved past the whole animosity thing with soccer in the snow and the police conversation.”    
  
“Yeah, but then you were an asshole to my sister, so it was kind of like a two steps forward one step back situation.”    
  
Killian scoffed and Robin muttered  _ hear hear _ and Will was still ignoring customers at the other end of the bar. “That’s fair,” he said, downing the rest of his drink in one gulp. 

David grinned, shifting in the seat and staring at Killian for a beat, like he was trying to read what he was thinking. He kind of hoped he couldn’t – because it would have read like some sort of ridiculously long ticker tape of how much he was absolutely in love with Emma and that probably would have been embarrassing. 

“Did you know that the department has investigated Gold before?” David asked. “On a bunch of different charges?”

Killian shook his head, eyes landing on a very-guilty looking Robin who didn’t even wait for Will to fill his glass, just grabbed the bottle and poured the shot himself. “He was,” David continued. “And nothing ever really stuck.”  
  
“But?”  
  
“But. Emma’s very good at getting what she wants. And she wanted something to stick.”  
  
“I don’t understand,” Killian said, ignoring that flutter of hope that had taken up root in the bottom of his stomach. 

David sighed dramatically, like he couldn't believe Killian was this slow on the uptake. “I told you you’d want to come out here to talk,” Robin muttered. 

“Let him explain,” Will said sharply, nodding back towards David and Killian wondered how long the three of them had been sitting at his bar with that bottle of scotch in front of them before he’d been dragged out of the kitchen. 

David tilted his glass towards the bartender, throwing a smile his direction and crossing his legs again, turning towards Killian with a very obvious look of determination on his face. “Tax evasion might stick. To Gold, I mean. He’s got a lot of properties across the city and that’s a lot of property tax that he, at quick glance, doesn’t appear to be paying. Or hasn’t been paying in years.”  
  
“That’s why he left Manhattan,” Robin added. 

“Exactly,” David agreed. “He wanted to try and expand out to another borough and maybe if he got a couple new buildings and a couple new lots he could just focus on those and the IRS and the department would forget about his holdings in Manhattan.”  
  
“And they didn’t?” Killian asked. 

“No. If anything, heading out to Brooklyn was like a flashing neon sign to the powers that be that he was trying to avoid them. It wasn’t a very good plan.”  
  
“Tax evasion?” Killian repeated, disbelief coloring his voice. “That’s really how this is going to end? With tax evasion?” David shrugged. 

“And fraud,” Will said, glancing up to the door when it opened and Belle walked into the restaurant. He was gone less than a full second later, suddenly much more interested in the other end of the bar and the girlfriend who had, a week ago, retaken up her residency in the seat on the corner. 

“Oh, well,” Killian laughed. “If there’s fraud involved too, then of course it’ll stick.”  
  
David and Robin leveled him with nearly identical frustrated stares, the uniform-wearing police officer even going so far as to shake his head for good measure. “See, this is being the ass that makes me try and get a rise out of you.”  
  
He groaned, sliding out of the seat to walk around the back of the bar and find the slightly cheaper rum. If he was going to keep drinking, he wasn’t going to waste the good stuff. “Plus,” David added pointedly, “Emma was the one who got this whole investigation really going. You’d think you’d be a bit more grateful.”  
  
“That’s just because she feels guilty,” Killian said before he could stop himself, biting the inside of his lip tightly when the words fell out of his mouth. 

David gaped at him and now Robin was shaking his head and the two of them had definitely talked about this at length before he’d come out there. “Of course she does,” Robin muttered, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

“She’s not a big fan of you giving up things for her,” David said. 

“Did she actually tell you that?” Killian raised his eyebrows expectantly and the cheap rum was God-awful compared to what he’d just been drinking, like fire sliding down the back of his throat. He hoped his kitchen wasn’t a disaster yet – this conversation was going to take more than ten minutes. 

“She didn’t have to.”  
  
Killian sighed, but he understood. It was, after all, the reason they were in this mess to begin with. He didn’t want Emma to give up anything she wanted for him and it led them to some ridiculous back and forth of trying to make the other one happy and now he had no expansion and she was enlisting the entire New York City Police Department to make sure it wasn’t all for nothing. 

She was something else when she was determined and he loved her an absolutely ridiculous amount. 

“She cares about you a lot,” David said and Killian ran his hand through his hair, fingers wrapped around the back of his neck tightly. 

Robin scoffed, earning a questioning look from the two other men in front of him. “She loves him a lot,” he corrected and it sounded like he was defending Killian. 

He did that a lot. 

Even when Killian didn’t ask. 

Especially when Killian didn’t ask. 

“Yeah,” David said. “That too.”

“And that’s not even the best part,” Robin continued, looking back at Killian. 

“No?” he asked. 

Robin shook his head, nudging his shoulder towards David – an unspoken command to keep talking. “If these charges stick,” David said, “and they’ll probably stick, then he’s going to have to come back with a way to pay it all back. There’ll be fines too, on top of what he owes and jail time and it’ll cost him more than he’s worth.”  
  
Killian’s mind was racing – he was, apparently, quicker on the uptake when the rum was shittier. “They’d seize his assets wouldn’t they?” he asked, eyes flashing between Robin and David and Will was back, Belle standing a few feet away with a look of interest and, maybe a bit of emotion, on her face. 

David nodded. “Probably pretty quickly.”  
  
He was having a difficult time breathing or focusing on anything that wasn’t the taste of the rum. If he thought about anything else, he’d probably walk out the restaurant and march three blocks downtown and plant himself in front of Emma’s apartment door until she and Henry got home. She’d done this. 

He’d given it up for her – would give it up for her ten times again if asked – and she’d resolutely refused to accept it, that flash of determination, apparently, widening until it was nearly a chasm. And Killian’s lungs hurt because he couldn’t quite breathe with the thought of it. 

“It’d be at value,” Robin said, pulling Killian’s attention back quickly. “Which considering the amount of improvements Marco already put in, will up the price a good amount, but it’d be yours, Killian. Without any strings attached.”  
  
He let that phrase sink into his mind for a moment, tongue darting out to lick his lips and this rum was absolutely disgusting. His brain was a mix of muddled numbers and the stack of papers still sitting in his living room and how he and Robin had tried, and resolutely failed, to figure out a way to make it all work. 

“It’d be yours too,” Killian muttered and Robin nearly choked on the scotch that was still, miraculously, in his glass. “I mean, if you want.”  
  
Robin smiled slowly, emotion working its way from the corners of his mouth up to his eyes and his gaze darted towards the hostess stand – Regina leaning against it with a pen stuck in her hair, tapping out a quick rhythm with the back of her heel, Roland just a few inches away, holding a stack of menus that were threatening to actually tip him over. “Yeah,” he said. “I think we could work with that.”

“Good.” Belle coughed pointedly and Killian’s eyebrows shot up when she nodded meaningfully towards Will. “What?” Killian asked, turning towards his bartender questioningly. “No sarcastic comment on friendship or partnership or Emma?”  
  
Will shook his head – a nervous energy falling off him that Killian hadn’t seen since Robin had marched him into The Jolly years ago and said he could use a job. “I’ve had a thought,” he said, voice low and Belle nodded again, leaning across the bar to brush her fingers over the back of his hand. 

“And?”  
  
“And,” he said, taking a deep breath, exhaling loudly, “I was thinking if it’s going to cost a good chunk of money to buy Jolly 2.0 then you might be looking for other investors. Or partners or whatever.”

Belle beamed at him, fingers lacing through Will’s like they’d had this conversation weeks ago. “We’ve been talking about it for awhile,” Robin said, answering the question Killian hadn’t actually asked. “A kind of joint effort to get it back.”  
  
“What?” Killian rasped, realizing belatedly he’d finished all of the shitty rum in his glass. Fuck, he still had to cook. Eric was going to have some sort of mental breakdown. 

Robin shrugged and Will laughed under his breath, hand still tied up in Belle’s. “When did it start?” he asked, glancing at Will. 

“After Ari attacked him at Battery Park.”  
  
“Ah, of course. A fantastic welcome home present.”  
  
“I don’t understand,” Killian said for the second time in this conversation. They shouldn’t have done this in the middle of service.

“Ari staged her intervention or whatever,” Robin laughed, “and then she came back here and reported on your emotional state and that you’d told Gold you were out and, well, we kind of staged some sort of undercover meetings about it.”  
  
“Undercover meetings? About my restaurant?”  
  
“You called it ours just now.” Killian sighed, fully aware he’d been backed into some sort of friendship corner. “Anyway,” Robin continued. “We started talking about it and we came up with this plan that maybe if we pooled our resources, we could pay off Gold and get the building back and it’d all work out.”  
  
“This whole tax evasion thing was just a happy coincidence,” Will added. 

“You knew about this too?” Killian asked, looking at David and doing the best to keep the accusation out of his eyes. 

“Nah,” David said. “And Emma didn’t either. This was all the people here.”

“You keep saying ‘we,’” Killian pointed out. “Who exactly is that?”

“Me, Gina, Scarlet, Eric and Ari,” Robin said, ticking off names on his fingers to make sure he didn’t miss anyone. 

And Killian couldn’t breathe again, emotions threatening to overwhelm him in the small amount of space behind his bar. He leaned forward, forearm resting on the weathered wood and he couldn’t quite believe what he’d managed to stumble into here – the kid who watched everything get pulled away from him, who constantly came up short and, absolutely, would have disappointed his brother, had found a family and people who were, seemingly, determined to make sure he got what he wanted.

“I know it’s not exactly the plan,” Robin said quickly, taking Killian’s silence for something else entirely. And at least he still had the reputation of being some sort aloof, unfeeling asshole. “And it was supposed to be uptown and easier than this and there weren’t supposed to be half a dozen owners, but we’ve gone over the numbers like ten times and we figured it out for certain last week after you filmed. This could work, Killian.”

It could. 

It could work. 

And there was something to be said for all of them together – a misfit group in the otherwise straight New York culinary world, full of wash-ups and drunks and ex-pats and, because it just seemed par for the course at this point to have some sort of family expansion, a four-months pregnant hostess who probably could keep them all in line with one very strong look. 

“When do you think these charges will, what did you call it, stick?” Killian asked David, steady tone of his voice hiding the absolute atomic bomb of sentiment currently taking up residence in the core of his being. 

“Well, there’s been some murmurings of looking into the tax thing with Gold for awhile.”  
  
“I thought you said Emma talked to you earlier this week.”  
  
“She did, but that doesn’t mean there wasn’t already an interest in Gold. There has been for years. She just suggested, very adamantly I might add, that I use my soon-to-exist rank to maybe make sure that the investigations got a bit more focused.”  
  
“And arrest’y,” Will chipped in, drawing a laugh out of Belle.”  
  
“That too, although I’m not entirely certain that’s a word.”

“We should probably drink to it, don’t you think?” Will asked. “Something about making it official.”  
  
Killian took a deep breath, fingers rubbing just a few inches from his wrist and he could feel Robin’s gaze land on the movement. “You all really want to do that?” he asked softly. “Even with the tax evasion thing, it’s a lot of money. God, Will, where did you even get that kind of money?”

Will had the common decency to look offended for several seconds, reaching over Killian’s shoulder to grab a bottle that might have actually been champagne. “You pay me,” he said evenly. “And it’s not like I had a ton of things to spend money on in the last couple of years. It’s easy to save when you spend your weekends pouring other people alcohol.”  
  
That was a fair point. 

And he’d definitely grabbed a very expensive bottle of champagne – if they were going to focus on money, they should probably be focused on that.    
  
“You should try and hit Will up for better dates,” Killian muttered towards Belle who just rolled her eyes in response. 

“He’s done ok,” she said. “And, anyway, it goes both ways, doesn’t it? I know a couple of people with fairly good restaurants after all.”  
  
Killian grinned at her and he was glad he’d stopped being a petulant bastard so Belle wasn’t vaguely terrified to show up at his restaurant again. He was glad she was here. And he was glad Will was happy. 

And he was a sentimental fool. 

“It’s not like we haven’t talked about this,” Robin said. “We have. For hours. With charts. Regina’s actually made charts, you know.”

As if on cue, his producer appeared in front of him, the lack of a line at the door giving her a few minutes to breathe and, more importantly, lord her chart-making ability over Killian. “Oh, you told him, then?” she asked, fingers grazing over the back of Robin’s neck. Roland made a noise near her and Robin hauled him onto his lap without question. 

“About the restaurant, yeah,” he said and Killian realized there was more to this story. 

“Not the other part?”  
  
Robin shook his head and Killian narrowed his eyes, a glass of champagne forced into his hand as Will nudged his shoulder. “What’s the other part?” he asked. 

The entire group went tense, like they’d all frozen and he was frustrated again – a turn of emotion he wasn’t expecting and not entirely happy to have found again. “Tell him, Gina,” Will said, doling out more glasses and even David looked nervous. 

Regina sighed dramatically, hand moving over Roland’s shoulder like it was helping her think. “Do you know why we won?” she asked, nodding towards the son she’d, officially, be able to adopt three months from now after going through another mountain of paperwork and social worker sessions. 

Killian shook his head and, not for the first time, felt a fresh wave of guilt wash over him that he didn’t – far too preoccupied with his own problems when Robin and Regina had gotten home, barely even letting the smile reach across his face when he congratulated them quickly. 

He had his assumptions, certain New York State had, finally, figure out that Regina Mills-Locksley was, for all intents and purposes, already Roland’s mother and just wanted to be able to call herself that with the entire backing of the law behind her. But he hadn’t actually asked. 

And no one had ever told him, probably also working their own assumptions that, until he’d fixed things with Emma, he’d snap at them for glancing in his direction. 

They were probably right. 

Regina took another deep breath and stared at him, finger tracing around the edge of her glass. “Emma,” she said and he waited for more of an explanation that, apparently, wasn’t going to come.

“What?”   
  
“Emma,” Regina repeated. “She’s the reason we won. I mean, you and Zelena helped, but the caseworker told us that having her statement made the difference. You know, as someone who knew us, but didn’t employ us or share a business partnership or anything like that. Just commented from an almost outsider’s perspective."    
  
David was grinning like he’d actually just become a sergeant of the New York City Police Department in the middle of The Jolly Roger and Killian was confused – again. “When did that happen?”  
  
“What?” Regina asked, shrugging slightly. 

“When did she give you the statement because it wasn’t at the same time I did.”  
  
“Oh, no it wasn’t.” Killian raised his eyebrows expectantly and Regina made a face, like she had been hoping to avoid this particular point of the conversation. “After,” she said, as if that made sense. He crossed his arms and waited. 

“She did it after you were an idiot, God,” Will said quickly, annoyance slipping into his voice and Regina shot him a glare that probably could have turned mere mortals to stone if she’d tried hard enough. 

“After,” Killian repeated and Regina nodded. 

“The caseworker said her letter came on February 20.”

Three days after the wedding. She’d sent it three days after the wedding. No, wait, that wasn’t how it worked. She’d sent it before then, it had just shown up three days after the wedding. Which meant she’d sent it, probably, the day after the wedding. 

She hadn’t answered his calls, but she’d written a character reference for his friends. And made sure her brother found a way to get Killian’s restaurant back. 

“Your math is probably right,” Regina said softly, losing that edge she’d had when she’d been glaring at Will. “It was after.”

Killian exhaled loudly and none of them had actually drank the champagne they were all still holding and they absolutely shouldn’t have done this during dinner service because now he couldn’t think straight, let alone hold a knife without possibly cutting himself. 

“So,” Regina continued, “you should probably say something about that. And tell me what to buy her because we should probably get her some kind of gift.”  
  
“You didn’t tell her?”

“I’m not the one dating her.”  
  
He was bordering dangerously close to hysterical, glass clutched dangerously tight in his hand and only managing to find some sort of center when Roland called his name. “Yeah, mate,” he said quickly. 

“Are you going to build the new restaurant now?” he asked, straight to the point. Or as straight to the point as seven year old could be. 

The small group at the corner of the bar stared at him expectantly and Killian tried to straighten his shoulders – feeling a bit like a leader he still wasn’t entirely certain he deserved to be. “Yeah, mate, yeah we are.”

He held up his glass and looked at the faces in front of him – matching smiles and emotions and Ariel was going to be incredibly upset she missed this because, nearly eight months ago, she’d cornered Killian in the corner of the hallway, just outside his kitchen, and told him he  _ deserved _ this, deserved to be happy. 

He was. 

And he wished Emma was there. 

“For good luck,” Killian said, tilting his glass forward and the group let out a less-than-quiet  _ whoop _ , drawing a fair share of curious stares from the still jam-packed dining room. None of them noticed, too focused on drinking and the future and something that might have actually bordered close to content. 

It ended up being, bar none, the longest dinner service of his entire life. 

Killian downed his champagne and, twenty minutes later than he’d promised Eric, made his way back into the kitchen to try and seize back some control of the night’s schedule. It didn’t really work – mind far too preoccupied with the sheer amount of information that had been dumped on his mental doorstep that night. 

Eric did his best to stay supportive – glad, he said, that they’d finally told him about the clandestine  _ save The Jolly meetings _ his entire staff had been holding for the last two weeks – but then another order came in and he had to plate things and he was running his own string of worries, determined to get back to Ariel as soon as possible. 

So as soon as the last customer was out the door and Regina flashed him something that might have actually been an encouraging smile, piling a stack of menus back underneath the hostess stand, Killian nearly yanked the apron off his hips, threw it on the side of the bar and sprinted three blocks downtown. 

He was out of breath when he skidded to a stop just outside her building, shoulders heaving and he barely gave himself a second to consider what kind of shape he must have been in before he yanked his phone out of his pocket and pressed her speed dial. 

She answered on ring number three. 

“Hey,” she mumbled and she’d definitely been asleep. He hadn’t considered that either. He didn’t really have a plan, just three blocks between him and her and that was far too much distance for him to deal with that night. 

“I woke you up,” Killian said, shoulders slumping as he leaned against the door in front of him. 

“Just a little.”  
  
“A little?”  
  
“How was service?”  
  
“Enlightening.”  
  
“That so?” 

He hummed in agreement and heard the couch creak when she moved. “Did you fall asleep on the couch, Swan?”

“Don’t laugh,” she said, not quite following the instructions herself. “It was a long day and a million and two kids were at these tryouts and apparently half the parents there have watched my show or the all-star thing and they all wanted to take pictures and I barely even got to see Henry play.”  
  
“How’d he do?” Killian asked, determination to see her momentarily forgotten in the desire to found how the teenager upstairs had done.

She laughed softly into the phone, couch creaking again when she moved and he _knew_ she’d pulled her legs up underneath her, chin resting on the top of her knees. “He did really good. Made the team, obviously.”  
  
“Obviously.”  
  
“Said he wished you could have been there.”  
  
And something in his very core seemed to shift at that, a single sentence refocusing his entire center and there was no word for it except overwhelming. “That makes two of us,” Killian said, eyes squeezing shut when an ambulance sped by him, horns blaring and lights actually hurting his eyes just a bit. 

“Where are you?” Emma asked. “Because I definitely just heard that siren in the phone and outside my window.”  
  
“That may be because I’m outside too.”  
  
“Yeah?” she asked and there might have been a flash of hope in her voice. He hoped so. 

“Yeah.”  
  
“Why didn’t you buzz up?”  
  
“That’s what the call is, love. And you were asleep.”  
  
“I’m not asleep now.”  
  
“I’ve noticed that.”  
  
Emma scoffed, but he heard her push up off the couch and the door underneath his shoulder clicked open without another word. He ignored the elevator in front of him – pushing into the stairwell and he was out of breath again by the time he reached her floor. 

She was leaning against the side of the doorframe when he came around the corner, hair piled in a knot on her head, body wrapped in an oversized sweater and leggings and if he squinted hard enough he could see the Manchester United emblem of her t-shirt –  _ his _ t-shirt. She looked perfect. 

It had been a ridiculously emotional day and, apparently, that emotion continued past 11 o’clock at night and three blocks farther downtown. 

“There’s an elevator, you know,” Emma said, nodding towards the doors a few feet away from where she was standing. 

“This was faster.”  
  
“You in a rush to get somewhere?”  
  
Killian raised his eyebrows, hands stuck in his pockets as he took a few measured steps towards her and she didn’t even gasp when he kissed her, ducking underneath her until Emma’s toes were scraping on the carpeted floor in between her apartment and the hallway, arms wrapped tightly around his neck. 

His hands worked underneath the sweatshirt and her fingers were in his hair and she did actually make a noise when he walked her backwards, kicking back against the door until it all but slammed into the frame. 

And he wasn’t entirely sure how they made it back to the couch, Emma’s feet trailing over the ground, hands tugging on the collar of his jacket instead of his hair and body pressed up flush against his, but neither one of them tripped or broke any bones, hardly stopping to breathe until they all but collapsed into the corner of the cushions. Killian pulled her around, legs splayed out over his, hand still underneath her sweatshirt and her lips were up against his neck a moment later, making it difficult to focus on anything, including the thirteen-year-old, presumably, asleep down the hallway. 

Her eyes were bright when she pulled away and his whole body felt like it was on edge – a mix of the night’s discoveries and that stupid t-shirt she was wearing, threatening to serve as some sort of relationship tipping point when he blurted out everything he’d thought on his three-block sprint, including how he might want to spend the rest of his life with her. 

“So, uh,” Emma said and Killian appreciated the soft stutter in her voice, “that was enthusiastic.”

He laughed, lips brushing against hers quickly. “It’s been that kind of night.”  
  
“You’ve been attack-kissing a lot of other girls then?”  
  
“Not quite. I more meant, it’s been an enthusiastic, overwhelming kind of night.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“You know your brother showed up at my restaurant tonight.”  
  
Emma’s eyes narrowed in confusion for a few moments and then widened quickly, understanding hitting her like a wave. “You can’t tell him anything,” she sighed, shaking her head as she glanced down at her legs. 

He pressed one finger underneath her chin, pushing it up lightly until she looked at back at him, nervous smile on the corners of her mouth. “Thank you,” Killian said seriously, hoping that, between the kissing and the falling into the couch and those two words, she might understand just what she’d done meant to him. 

Everything. 

It meant everything. 

And she was everything. 

“It was good timing,” he said. Emma made a noise in the back of her throat, a question without actually asking. “Apparently my entire staff has been staging some sort of back-door meetings to try and figure out a way to buy back the warehouse.”  
  
“What?”  
  
Killian nodded. “If this tax thing can stick on Gold, they’ll probably seize his assets, which means the warehouse will be up for auction. And it’ll be at cost, which means we’d own it. Completely. Not the rent we were going to pay Gold.”  
  
Emma’s mouth dropped open, air rushing out of her in a quick huff of emotion Killian was certain he could feel in his toes. “The tax thing’ll stick,” she said, certainty in her voice. “David promised.”  
  
“He said you were very determined.”  
  
“I’m not going to let you give up on what you want.” Killian opened his mouth, something about how she was what he wanted on the tip of his tongue, but Emma shook her head. “No, no,” she muttered. “I know it’s more than that, but this is why you did the all-star thing to begin with, to expand The Jolly and let Eric have his own menu and he and Ariel deserve it too. Plus Robin and Regina and they finally got the adoption situation settled and they shouldn’t have to worry about losing all that money just because you want to be honorable.”

Killian laughed, shaking his head at her, thanking _someone_ or _something_ for sending Emma Swan his direction. “I won’t let you give up something for me,” she said and there was that determination, that _fight,_  he loved. “No matter how nice it was.”  
  
“We’re going to do it,” he said. “All of us, I mean. They were, uh, well they were very insistent. Apparently there were graphs.”  
  
“Regina made those didn’t she?”  
  
“She did.”  
  
“Good.”

Emma smiled at him, burrowing against his side until her head was on his shoulder and his arm was wrapped around her waist and  _ he  _ probably could have fallen asleep on the couch like that too. “That wasn’t all,” Killian said softly and Emma mumbled a few words that might have been a question. “Gina told me what you did.”

She sat up sharply, eyes flashing his direction. “Did what?”  
  
“You’re the reason they won, Swan. She wants to buy you some sort of gift. I’m supposed to report back with ideas.”  
  
Emma laughed, a noise bordering on scoff. “I didn’t do anything. If anything, I was incredibly late in sending in my statement. I’m just glad it got there in time.”  
  
“Not only did it do that, but it made an entire organization see that this was a family that deserved to be made official.”  
  
“I agree with you. I’m glad, especially for Rol. It’s tough to be that young and not entirely certain you’ve got anyone around.”  
  
“You know that includes you now too?” Killian asked, question falling into the small space between them without any thought of its weight. 

Emma stiffened slightly and for a moment it looked like he’d  _ pushed _ , but then she smiled, exhaling softly and tugging on her lower lip. “I’d like that.”   
  
“Good.”    
  
He wasn’t sure who moved first – and maybe they moved at the same time and there was something vaguely poetic and  _ right _ about that if they did, bodies shifting towards each other quickly until they were a tangle of limbs and hands in hair and teeth tugging on lips. 

Killian would have accepted staying in that moment forever, wrapped up in the idea of a family and one that included Emma Swan and a thirteen-year-old down the hall who wanted him to be at his soccer tryouts, but they both needed to breathe at some point, pulling apart in a desperate attempt to get some oxygen. 

And he would have been disappointed by that if it weren’t for the next word out of her mouth. 

“Stay,” Emma said, fingers tracing along the edge of his jaw. 

He didn’t think, just nodded and she smiled at him, standing up and holding her hand out expectantly. Killian took it and followed her down the hallway, footsteps soft on the hardwood floor and the smile still on his face even when he fell asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's so fluffy dot gif. This might have honestly been my favorite chapter in this entire fic to write because at the start of the story I had absolutely no idea how I was going to make this work and, by the time I got here, it was just so obvious. Found families, tho. I'm a sap. 
> 
> As always, every click, comment and kudos is appreciated and hoarded like some fic-type dragon. @laurenorder continues to be the best and reading things when there is a hurricane coming. 
> 
> Come flail on Tumblr if you're down: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	39. Chapter 39

“Mom!”  
  
Emma groaned and Mary Margaret laughed, fingers twisting her hair into something that, hopefully, wouldn’t be a knotted mess by the end of the night. “You’re almost done,” she promised, glancing at her reflection in the mirror and tugging on Emma’s hair again.

“And I also have a very impatient kid.”  
  
“Yeah, well,” Mary Margaret countered. “At least he’s voicing his impatience and not just wailing about it. I swear, it’s becoming like clockwork now. Every night at some point between 2:45 and 3:07, Leo starts wailing. Every night, I swear.”  
  
“3:07?” Emma repeated, eyebrows lifted in something that might have been skepticism, but was mostly just being impressed by the newborn’s timeliness.

“3:07. Every night.”  
  
“You should send that to someone. Or tell someone. Go viral. The great clock-watching baby.”

“I’d settle for him sleep consistently for a few hours at a time.”  
  
“You’re supposed to let him cry it out. That’s what all the books say.”  
  
“Did you ever let Henry cry it out?” Mary Margaret asked, eyeing Emma appraisingly in the mirror as she circled the braid on the back of her head.

“Nah,” Emma admitted, laughing softly. “It’s easier said than done.”  
  
“Exactly.”   
  
Emma grinned at Mary Margaret – a bit stunned at what she’d been able to do with her hair and her makeup, living up to her promise to Ruby that _Emma didn’t need to pay a professional when she has me_ – her hand brushing over the back of her neck.

It was the first time Leo Henry Nolan had been allowed out of the relative comfort of his apartment since arriving in the world about a month before – barring two trips to the doctor and one vaguely terror-filled, middle-of-the-night trip to the emergency room a week and half ago when the newborn had been diagnosed with colic and Mary Margaret cried when Emma walked into the waiting room.

She’d blamed it on post-pregnancy hormones then and it was so goddamn endearing Emma wasn’t even _that_ upset about being called out of her bed at 1:34 in the morning.

She crawled back under the blankets nearly two hours later – never actually admitting that she’d been just as worried about Leo Henry as his slightly frantic parents had been – an arm wrapping around her waist with a soft noise and a brush of his lips on the back of her neck.

He’d stayed.

And they hadn’t really talked about it – not after that night and the revelation that his entire restaurant was willing to help make sure he got the warehouse back or Emma had, somehow, made certain Regina got to adopt her son. He’d simply followed her to her room and never really left.

He’d slowly, but surely taken over a corner of her closet and, perhaps more importantly, a corner of her kitchen, baking supplies earning a cabinet all to their own and no one appreciated that more than Henry – a brand-new soccer team to feed and an Iron Chef to impress them with.

Killian was mostly surprised that almost thirteen-year-old kids were, apparently, very impressed by an Iron Chef with a particular knack for baking things en mass, but Emma wasn’t – certain it had a lot more to do with his knowledge of soccer and the way Henry lit up every single time he appeared on the sideline.

“How’s he doing?” Killian muttered and Emma pressed back against his chest, sighing softly when his fingers ghosted across her stomach.

“Colic,” she said softly. He was incredibly warm and his arm tightened around her waist, tugging her closer against him and it shouldn’t have made her heartbeat pick up the way it did. Killian hummed softly and Emma was glad it was dark and the middle of the night and that her back was to him because the smile on her face – and the _want_ in the pit of her stomach – probably would have been embarrassing if he saw it.

He was in the living room now, shouting something at the TV and Emma heard Henry’s laughter echo through the entire apartment as a zombie died particularly loudly. She was grinning like an idiot, almost oblivious to slightly stunned expression on Mary Margaret’s face until she pinched the skin on her shoulder.

“Jeez, M’s,” Emma hissed, glaring at her sister-in-law’s reflection. “That hurt.”  
  
“What’s happening with your face?”   
  
“Excuse me?”   
  
“You’re all glossy.”   
  
“Can’t you fix that with makeup?”   
  
“Yeah, that’s not what I’m talking about.”   
  
Henry shouted for her again and Emma wasn’t certain if he wanted her to hurry up or just see the replay of what sounded like a particularly impressive zombie kill. Emma opened her mouth to question _what exactly_ Mary Margaret was talking about, but there was a knock on her bedroom door, half closed so she could get dressed earlier without threat of someone bursting in, and David leaned around the corner, eyes practically squeezed shut.

“You’re fifteen,” Emma accused, shaking her head. “Come on in, everyone’s dressed. You’re not actually interrupting anything.”

“Yeah, well I’ve never sent you off to some sort of major network event, let me have this.”  
  
“I literally went to a network holiday party a couple of months ago.”  
  
“And I had to watch your kid.”  
  
Emma rolled her eyes, resisting the urge to point out that he’d done the same exact thing when she’d gone to prom in Storybrooke, but didn’t want to hear stories about the dress or how her date had snuck alcohol into the punch in the back corner of the gym. David and Mary Margaret had to pick her up.

She’d gotten drunk.

Really drunk.

And spent the night hiding out in Mary Margaret’s bedroom – trying to avoid Ruth until she was one hundred percent sober the next day.

“Speaking of which,” Emma said, turning in the chair Mary Margaret had put in front of the full-length mirror on the inside of her closet door to stare at her brother. “Where exactly is your kid?”

Mary Margaret gasped softly – like she’d only just realized Leo Henry wasn’t draped over David’s shoulder – and he glared at Emma, eyes narrowing again until they were no more than slits on his face. “Thanks a lot,” he muttered. Emma just shrugged. “Killian’s got him.”  
  
“Killian?” Emma asked, several body parts flipping at the idea of her boyfriend, presumably also dressed for a major network event, holding her nephew in her living room. David nodded and Emma was halfway down the hallway before Mary Margaret yelled something about _not ruining your hair._

He _was_ dressed and he must have gotten ready in Henry’s room because she and Mary Margaret had been camped out in her bedroom for the past forty-five minutes. She’d been, at least partially, right – Henry was playing video games and killing zombies, but Killian wasn’t sitting on the couch, standing, instead, a few feet in front of it with a sleeping newborn propped up against his shoulder, a towel guarding his shirt underneath.

He was bobbing up and down, almost like he was rocking back and forth on his heels, arm underneath Leo Henry’s legs, prosthetic resting lightly on his back.

And Emma wasn’t sure she’d actually ever be able to move again – certain she’d only ever be able to see this picture in front of her eyes for the rest of her life.

All things considered, it wasn’t really a bad way to go.

It didn’t last as long as she would have liked – that almost perfect moment in the middle of her living room – before Henry got eaten by a zombie, throwing his controller into one of the pillows in the corner of the couch and slumping further down into the cushions. He noticed her then, eyes going wide at the sight of her network event-ready look.

“Sounded like you died a pretty horrible death there,” Emma laughed, noticing Killian’s back straighten when he heard her voice.

Henry shrugged, shaking his hair out of his eyes and maybe she could get Mary Margaret to cut it again tonight. “I got to a new level though, so I guess it’ll be worth it. Uncle David said he’d help once you guys were gone.”  
  
“Yeah, we should probably leave soon. Or will leave soon. I don’t know, Ruby set up the car so it’ll probably be here five minutes before it’s supposed to.”

Leo Henry made a noise and Killian murmured something in his ear, turning around as he spoke and that wasn’t fair – the look on his face and the fit of the tux and there was a goddamn baby in his arms. And Emma might have been the worst person in the world because she’d just thought of her nephew as a goddamn baby.

“Swan,” he said softly and Henry didn’t even groan, just glanced at them wide-eyed and expectantly. The floor in the hallway creaked and Emma knew David and Mary Margaret were a few feet away and it all actually felt a little bit like prom. “You look incredible, love.”  
  
She couldn’t find it in herself to argue with him – no sign of a sarcastic response or even a quiet scoff, not when he was looking at her like that. And certainly not when Mary Margaret had twisted her hair into some kind of braided crown at the nape of her neck and her makeup was better than it had probably ever been on TV and her dress might have actually been the most expensive thing she’d ever bought.

It wasn’t red, but it didn’t seem to matter – not when Killian’s eyes traveled up the slit on the side and she should probably put her heels on because the hem was dragging on the floor.

They’d probably look good on camera together.

And in print.

There were going to be print photographers there, a fact Ruby had done her best to impress upon Emma in the leadup to the event and a major reason why she hadn’t had some sort of coronary when she realized how much the dress cost.

It cost a lot and it was the wrap event for the all-star thing and there were going to be photographers and reporters and cameras and Emma Swan and Killian Jones were making their first, public appearance as some sort of celebrity chef couple.

She’d worked out her nerves on that _particular_ situation by spending an absolutely obscene amount of money on the dress she was going to wear.

It was worth it for the reaction.

“Pictures,” Mary Margaret yelled, giving up her not-so-secret position around the corner of the hallway. David groaned and Henry laughed and tiny-Nolan gurgled, earning another string of muttered words from Killian as he walked towards Emma, eyes not entirely appropriate considering he was still carrying a newborn.

He adjusted Leo Henry, resting more of his weight on his right arm and trailing his left hand over her arms. “You look incredible,” he said, repeating himself and Emma bit the side of her tongue as Mary Margaret rummaged in her bag to find her phone.

“You said that already,” Emma pointed out.

Killian smirked at her, one eyebrow lifted up and the living room suddenly seemed much warmer than it had a few minutes before. “Give me a bit more privacy and, I promise, I’ll come up with a few more adjectives, love.”  
  
Emma laughed, not quite sure she could come up with a coherent thought, let alone some kind of actual response.

She didn’t have to.

Mary Margaret had, apparently, found her phone – a fact she announced to the entire living room, loudly.

Leo Henry didn’t appreciate that _at all,_  voicing his displeasure against Killian’s shoulder and he seemed more entertained than anything, smiling as he handed the month-old kid to David. The buzzer downstairs sounded and the car was here – seven minutes before its scheduled arrival time – and Emma laughed again.

“Ah, will you look at that,” she said, tugging on the cuff of Killian’s shirt as she tried to make her way towards her door. “Looks like we’ve got to go.”  
  
David sighed, some sort of disappointed older brother look painted on his face and Emma’s shoulders sagged. There was no getting out of this. “Come on, Swan,” Killian said, pulling his hand away only to lace his fingers through her and bring her back into the middle of the living room, half blocking Henry’s view of the TV.

“Mom,” Henry groaned, twisting his head to try and look around her.

“Two seconds to make M’s happy will not kill you, kid.”  
  
Mary Margaret beamed at them, ushering them back in front of the TV and holding her phone up like she was actually some kind of professional photographer. “Smile,” she commanded and Killian’s arm tugged Emma closer to his side and it was absolutely just like prom.

“M&M’s are you almost done?” Henry asked and Emma clicked her tongue, not entirely appreciating the tone of his voice. He sighed dramatically, zombies taking over some town or city or something on the screen without him.

Mary Margaret clicked her phone a few more times and Emma’s patience was starting to wear thin as well. “Ok, M’s,” she said, tilting her head meaningfully. “There’ll be plenty of cameras there so you can get pictures from them too. The car’s going to leave without us.”  
  
“The network paid a lot of money for that car,” Mary Margaret argued, David laughing softly at her determination as he tried to rock Leo Henry back into a state of calm and not crying in Emma’s living room. “It’ll wait.”

“Even so, seems rude to make the guy wait an hour for us to come downstairs.”

“It wasn’t an hour,” she grumbled, sinking back onto the couch and grabbing the other controller next to her. “Come on kid,” she said, nudging Henry’s shoulder. “Let’s kill things.”  
  
“M’s! Oh my God.”   
  
“You guys look really good,” she said, voice softening just a bit, which seemed almost ironic because she was unnaturally good at this. Henry gaped at her, mouth hanging open as her fingers practically danced over the controller, chopping off heads as she went. “Don’t come back here tonight, ok? Go back to Killian’s apartment.”   
  
Henry _did_ groan at that and David might have choked on the air he was trying to breathe. The tips of Killian’s ears had gone red and his arm slacked around her waist just a bit. Emma glared at her and Mary Margaret grinned back – zombies crying out for help in the background, or whatever it was zombies did when they died. Again.

“Go,” she said, smiling pointedly at Emma, the same way she’d looked at her in the mirror a few hours before. “And have fun and look good on camera. You know, again. For the professionals.”  
  
Emma shook her head, Killian’s arm tight around her again as she leaned forward to kiss Henry’s cheek, earning another groan for the maternal move. She brushed her knuckle over the back of tiny-Nolan’s leg and the buzzer sounded again.

“Impatient car guy,” David muttered. “Better hurry up. And don’t worry about us here, we’ll be fine.”

The buzzer sounded again and Killian was bordering on hysterical at this point, threatening to wake up Leo Henry in the process. “Come on, Swan,” he muttered and both David and Mary Margaret nodded at her encouragingly. Henry killed more zombies.

They were definitely late and Ruby was going to yell and Regina was going to glare and Emma didn’t care because as soon as they were in the car, Killian made good on his promise to come up with a few more adjectives about her dress.

* * *

She hadn’t expected this many cameras. There were a lot of cameras and it seemed a bit crazy to imagine that these cameras were there for them.

They cooked things.

They cooked things on TV and occasionally did it for charity and to get their TV shows back or expand their restaurants and those last two things still seemed a bit problematic.

Or at least one of them did.

Because The Jolly was going to expand – the ragtag family that lived in that dining room had made sure of it, pooling their money and their determination and a slew of laminated charts Regina had shown Emma a few weeks before.

And David had promised they’d get Gold.

Emma wasn’t worried about that.

David kept his promises and she could hardly argue laminated charts.

She was worried about her own show – and it was vaguely selfish, but Aurora’s story was supposed to come out that week and Emma was slightly terrified to see all of that in actual print with photos of her on set and promotional outtakes she’d shot with Killian months before. The story was supposed to fix everything.

And no one had said anything one way or another.   
  
Not even the week before when they’d filmed the five-course extravaganza and Emma’s hands were cramping from so much spatula flipping and pan-holding and they had to pose for even more promotional photos for the cookbook they were going to sell over the summer.

It was exhausting – worry eating away at the back of her brain when she just wanted to be focused on how happy she was with everything else in her life.

“Deep breaths, Swan,” Killian whispered, muttering the words in her ear as he nudged her towards the doors.

She nodded once, a ridiculous, jerky movement that was going to look ridiculous and jerky on camera and tried to smile. There were cameras and it was all incredibly bright and they _cooked for a living_ for God’s sake and she didn’t even have a show anymore.

This was ridiculous.

They weaved their way down the carpet – jeez, there was a carpet and this was Lincoln Center, there wasn’t supposed to be a carpet in Lincoln Center – Killian’s hand on her back and he was muttering in her ear still, the same vaguely encouraging sentiment for what felt like a mile of camera-studded walking.

It was Lincoln Center so the space was gorgeous and there were chandeliers and Emma wondered where the network had even gotten enough money for something like this. “See, Swan,” Killian said, grinning at her before nodding towards Belle and Will on the other side of the hall. And this was almost vaguely worth it to see Will Scarlett wearing a tuxedo at a network-sponsored event.

“Yuh huh,” Emma muttered and he laughed again, pulling her further into the room, grabbing two glasses of champagne off a tray as they moved. “Efficient,” she said, nearly downing the entire thing in one gulp.

“Just think how good we’ll look in all those pictures.”  
  
Emma smiled, almost not entirely worried about her show or getting her picture taken or how she’d won this whole _stupid_ all-star event and no one had said a single word about it. “Hey,” he said sharply, hand wrapping around elbow. “You ok, love?”  
  
And she was – because he asked.

Because he cared.

And he stayed.

“Emma! Emma! Emma!”  
  
She jerked her head up, Killian’s hand tightening around her elbow to help keep her balance in this very long dress and very high heels and Ruby was practically sprinting across the hall, people all but jumping out of her path.

Dorothy was just a few steps behind, something like amusement flashing across her face. “Emma,” Ruby yelled again, throwing her hand up in the air as if she couldn’t see her already or hear her perfectly.

“You’re going to sprain your ankle,” Dorothy muttered when they both skidded to a stop a few feet in front of Emma and Killian.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Ruby muttered, thrusting something into Emma’s hand.

“What is this?”

“Swan,” Killian said, staring at it meaningfully. It was the magazine. It was her story – or it would be her story, once she actually opened the thing. She couldn’t really feel any of her extremities though, so that made it a bit more difficult to accomplish.

Ruby sighed dramatically when Emma didn’t move fast enough, grabbing the magazine back out of her hand and flipping open to the page that was absolutely bookmarked three quarters away through. “It’s good, Em,” she said, holding it open like it was show and tell at Lincoln Center.

“Really good,” Dorothy added.

“You did everything right, Emma. Everything. You were _you_ and people are going to love it. Seriously. Have you seen Zelena yet?”  
  
Emma shook her head slowly, eyes roving across the crowd. “We literally just got here,” she said, ignoring Ruby’s disappointed glare at her arrival time.

“The car was got to your apartment like an hour ago!”  
  
“How do you even know that?” Ruby shrugged, snapping the magazine closed again and sticking it underneath her arm. “Why do I need to see Zelena?”  
  
“To talk about your show,” Ruby said, like it was the most obvious answer in the world. “Or the future of your show.”  
  
“What?” Emma said, voice cracking and Killian was still there, arm moving up to her shoulders and lips brushing against the top of her head. Ruby groaned, personally offended at this public display of affection.

“If you guys could control yourselves for like two seconds,” she mumbled, ignoring Dorothy’s soft _relax_ behind her. Emma rolled her eyes. “I’d tell you that Zelena wants to talk to you, Em. About your show. And getting it back on the air. And maybe changing a few things, but, you know, getting back on the air. Soon. Or soon’ish at least.”  
  
“Wait, wait, I don’t understand,” Emma said, wishing she hadn’t drank her champagne that quickly. She needed something to do with her hands.

“What exactly does soon’ish mean?” Killian asked.

Ruby leveled him with a glare and he didn’t back down and there was something about this weird protective gene that seemed to activate between both of them. “Soon’ish means exactly what it sounds like,” Ruby said. “Emma will get back on the air soon’ish, but I think we’re going to change the approach a bit.”  
  
“How?” Emma said sharply, cutting into the conversation, not interested in protective genes or pointed stares anymore.

“How what?”  
  
“How will we change the approach?”  
  
“To you.”

Emma blinked and Ruby grinned at her like she’d just told her she’d won the lottery. “I don’t get it.”  
  
“You were _you_ in that story, Em. Up front and honest and open and I’m not saying you have to be that every minute of every day, but if you could bring some of that to your show and your set and people’s TV screens on Sunday morning, I think we could see the numbers shoot through some sort of metaphorical roof.”  
  
“You’re still not making any sense, Rubes,” Emma sighed, frustration eating into the corners of the sentence.

“Think about it.”  
  
Emma sighed, exasperation rolling off her in waves and she opened her mouth to, maybe, shout something at Ruby about talking in riddles, but Killian stepped in front of her, hands on her shoulders and a look of pure determination in his eyes.   
  
“Swan,” he said evenly. Fuck. His eyes were blue.

“Yeah?”  
  
“Think about it, love,” Killian continued, repeating Ruby’s words and she audibly scoffed behind him. He didn’t even blink. “You could make whatever you want. You could get new appliances. A theme you don’t secretly hate.”  
  
“You hate your theme?” Ruby cried and Emma let out a shaky laugh.

Killian didn’t move, kept looking at her intently, one side of his mouth pulled up. “You can just be you, Swan.”  
  
“You think that’d be ok?” Emma asked, voice low and nervous. She couldn’t imagine how he’d actually heard her. Of course he had.

He beamed at her, eyes bright and this wasn’t fair. He wasn’t playing fair – between the tux and the baby holding and that stupid, supportive smile that might have been three quarters of the reason she’d fallen in love with him in the first place, Emma was a lost cause.

“I do,” Killian said, thumb trailing across her collarbone. Emma’s hands landed on the front of his jacket, tugging him towards her and they should get better at this whole responding thing because it seemed, more often than not, they ended up kissing instead.

Ruby groaned again and when Emma looked up at her, her producer’s entire head was thrown back, eyes glued on the ceiling.

“Ah,” Regina said, appearing out of nowhere with a glass of champagne in her hand, Robin just a step behind. “Are they doing that thing where they kiss each other instead of actually using words when one of them says something particularly emotional?”  
  
“Yes,” Ruby cried. “Exactly that. It’s gross.”  
  
“We’re standing right here,” Killian muttered.

Regina shrugged and Ruby made a noise in the back of her throat. “What do you think, Em?” she asked, getting back to business with the kind of professional whiplash that made her head hurt.

“What did Zelena say?”  
  
“The fact that she wanted to talk to you seems like a pretty good sign.”  
  
“She read the story?” Ruby nodded. “And talked to you about the show? And possibly skyrocketing ratings?” Two more nods.

“I’m not lying to you.”  
  
“I wouldn’t think you would be.”  
  
“The questions suggest otherwise.” Emma sighed and Ruby grinned at her like she knew she’d already won this particular argument. She probably had.

“Yes,” Emma said and Killian kissed the top of her head again.

“Yes, what? Exactly?”  
  
“Yes to redoing the show and being me on air or whatever. If I can get new appliances out of it, I’m willing to do just about anything.”

“If I’d known you hated your theme so much I definitely would have used that to my advantage in previous arguments,” Ruby said, crossing her arms forcefully.

“You’re going to mess up the beading on you dress if you do that.”  
  
“Emma!”  
  
She grinned, stepping out from Killian’s arms around her shoulders and pulling Ruby into a hug before she even had a chance to object. And she didn’t really – just grunted a bit when she nearly lost balance on her heels and wrapped her arms tightly around Emma.

“Congratulations, babe,” Ruby muttered and Emma couldn’t actually cry in the middle of this network event. “No one deserves it more than you.”

And Emma couldn’t quite breathe and it wasn’t because of the dress or Ruby’s soft words or Killian’s fingers trailing across the back of her neck.

Well, it might have been, at least, partially because of that.

It might have also been because, for the first time in just about as long as she could possibly remember, Emma was in control. Actually in control and not just the compartmentalized version she’d been certain was the way it had to be.

The walls were down and the boxes were folded and put away in some sort of metaphorical closet she hoped she never had to actually open again – a completely different one from the closet in her apartment, chock-full of Killian Jones’ clothes.

And maybe Emma Swan –  _just_ Emma Swan – was enough.

“Did you tell her?” Belle asked, glancing questioningly in Ruby’s direction. The producer just hummed in the back of her throat, an agreement muffled slightly by her face pressed into Emma’s hair. “Good.”  
  
“How many people knew about this, Rubes?” Emma muttered, taking a step back and nearly colliding with Killian’s forearm.

“Just Belle. And I guess Will. And Robin and Regina. And Zelena. And Dor. Obviously. But she doesn’t really count.”  
  
“Thanks,” Dorothy mumbled and Ruby flashed her a smile that deserved its own magazine spread and several moments on that mile-long carpet in front of a small army of photographers and reporters.

“You guys were incredibly late,” Will said.

“Aren’t you supposed to be working?” Killian asked. “Who’s running my bar?”

“Yeah, you’re not a very good boss. Or a very observant boss, at least. I told you I was coming to this thing like a week ago. After we talked about what kind of alcohol to stock the warehouse with. Then Emma showed up and you went home with her and, very clearly, forgot everything I told you.”  
  
“I remember the alcohol.”  
  
“Of course you do.”  
  
“We ordered a lot of rum and scotch as I remember.”  
  
“Yeah, well people drink a lot of rum and scotch.”  
  
“We drink a lot of rum and scotch,” Killian corrected. Will shrugged.

There was a noise that sounded like a gong in the background of the room and Emma suddenly realized there was a stage as well and a microphone stand with Zelena behind it. “Jeez,” Robin muttered, shaking his head in disbelief at everything that was going on in the middle of Lincoln Center. “Are we under attack?”

“I think that’s probably Zelena,” Emma muttered, glancing up at the network head as she took the stage, eyes sweeping across the crowd that had snapped to attention at the sound. Robin nodded in understanding.

Zelena tapped the mic and the music cut out and the murmurs of the crowd lasted just a few seconds under her vaguely heavy stare. Killian’s arm looped back around her shoulders and Emma wasn’t particularly interested in anything Zelena had to say when she could feel him next to her like that.

She turned on him, appreciating the way his eyes widened when her hand landed on his hip. “Can I talk to you?” Emma asked.

“Now? You’ll miss Zelena congratulating you on your incredible cooking effort.”  
  
“Yeah, I don’t care about that.”

Killian narrowed his eyes at her – like he was trying to figure out if she was telling the truth – hand falling back down to hers as she tugged him back towards the front doors. “Swan?” he muttered, catching her short.

“Yeah?”  
  
He scoffed out a quiet laugh, the corners of his mouth ticking up as he shook his head slightly. “You’re the one who wanted to talk, love. What about?”  
  
“Thank you,” she said, words falling out of her mouth without preamble or much thought. She didn’t know what else to say.

“For?”  
  
“For this. For...everything.”  
  
“I didn’t do anything, Swan. You did. You needed to get your show back and now you can, on your own terms.”  
  
“You ordered alcohol for Jolly 2.0?”

Killian nodded, thumb rubbing out a small circle on the back of her wrist. “A slightly obscene amount,” he laughed. “But, uh, yeah, we did. Marco’s almost done with a lot of it too. There’s apparently even several doors.”  
  
“Heat?” Emma asked, stepping closer to him.

“Not yet.”  
  
“Ah, maybe someday.”  
  
“Although, we’re getting fairly close to needing air conditioning. So I’m not overly focused on the heat aspect of it.” She hummed in acknowledgement and Killian narrowed his eyes again. “Emma?” he asked. “What’s going on? Really.”  
  
She took a deep breath, twisting her lips and trying to figure out how to actually put words to whatever she was feeling. “I’m just...happy.”

His eyes flashed, darting across her face and landing on her lips and she wasn’t entirely ready for him when he crashed against her, fingers wrapped around her wrist and yanking her forward. They were doing it again – kissing in response and if he wasn’t so incredibly _good_ at this, Emma probably would have suggested they actually talk about something.

But he was incredibly _good_ at this, hand around her neck and brace pushing into her back and Emma could feel every single inch of him in this dark corner they’d managed to find themselves in.

“That’s all I wanted, Swan,” Killian said, murmuring the words against her lips.

“Well, mission accomplished.”

He laughed, eyes bright and blue and staring straight at Emma. “What do you think the chances are of getting out of here without getting yelled at?”  
  
“Probably pretty slim.”   
  
“Yeah, that’s true,” he sighed. “Although as much as I’d like to get you home and, possibly, out of that dress, I do have to admit that it looks fairly good on.”   
  
Emma raised her eyebrows and they were ridiculously _good_ at this too – the banter and the flirting and the making her stomach flip like she was fifteen. “Possibly?” she asked, skeptically and he smirked at her.

“Seemed rude to just jump to conclusions.”  
  
“Feel free to jump to that one.”

Zelena was still talking and it sounded like the crowd was actually applauding at this point and Emma still didn’t care, just pushed her hand back into Killian’s hair and felt her heart pick up when her lips caught his.

And, quite suddenly, the girl who’d never really thought she’d get anything, felt as if she had everything.

* * *

“Still with me, Swan?”

She mumbled a response, pressing her head into the crook of his neck and Killian brushed his lips across her hairline, tugging her against his side.

They stayed for four hours and they were, without question, the longest four hours of Emma’s life. She answered questions about her show and the return and when she’d be back in front of a camera again and then answered more questions about the all-star competition and the interview and, God help her, at least three questions about her relationship with Killian. And by the time they’d gotten in a car and back downtown, Emma was bordering dangerously close to exhausted.

Which didn’t really seem fair since she had vaguely big, life-changing plans for the rest of the night.

“Yeah, I’m still here,” she said.

“Good.” She didn’t say anything else, but she could feel him take a deep breath under her, chest moving with the effort of it. He hadn’t actually put his shirt back on and Emma’s very expensive, very well-fitting dress was mostly an afterthought at this point. “Emma,” he said again, and that was the second time he’d called her that.

It wasn’t making this any easier.

“Swan,” Killian muttered, softer this time, fingers trailing up and down her spine. “I can hear you thinking, love.”  
  
She huffed out the breath she didn’t realize she was holding. “Maybe focus some of that energy on what it is I’m thinking then.”  
  
“Or you could just tell me.”

Emma propped herself up, resting her head up on her hand and Killian turned, following her gaze. “I have a proposition for you,” she said. “A deal, as it were.”

Killian’s eyebrow ticked up. “That word, though, Swan.”  
  
“I thought it might spark some interest.”

“To be fair, you’re fairly good at that on your own.”  
  
She felt something shoot through her chest at that and it might have actually been confidence. This was going to work.

“See, that’s a good place to start,” Emma said, goosebumps forming on her arm when he brushed his hand down it.

“What are you getting at?”  
  
Emma clicked her tongue. “No, no, we’re not rushing over this. I’m going to enjoy this.”  
  
“Go ahead, Swan.”  
  
“Well, I’ve noticed a couple of things over the last month or so.”  
  
“Like?”  
  
“Like how you’ve kind of settled into our lives. I mean me and Henry and, jeez, even M’s and David. And I’ve kind of settled in here. And it’s been good. Really good. I mean, you’ve got half your clothes in my apartment and more baking stuff than I ever actually knew existed.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, lips set in a straight line and it almost looked like he was nervous. That wasn’t right. He wasn’t supposed to be nervous.

He was supposed to play along.

“I can move some of the stuff, Swan,” Killian muttered. “If it’s…”  
  
“No,” Emma cut him off. “It’s not.”  
  
“It’s not?”  
  
“Did you miss the part where I said it was good?”  
  
Killian smiled slowly, the movement inching across his face. “Apparently,” he muttered.

“It’s good,” Emma repeated. “Really good. And I’m happy.”  
  
“That’s kind of the goal here, Swan.”  
  
“No, I know that. Jeez, will you let me finish?” Killian laughed, grin spreading wider, and he raised his eyebrows quickly. “I’m trying to tell you to stay.”  
  
“What?” he asked, voice shaking just a bit over the four letters.  

“Stay. You know, like, indefinitely. I mean, you’ve got enough clothes and baking supplies to last a lifetime. And it’s not ideal or anything. Henry will be there and David and Mary Margaret have keys and…”  
  
Killian shook his head, pulling Emma up until they were both sitting in the middle of his mattress, sheets and blankets twisted in between their legs. “Yes,” he said quickly, hand cupping her jaw when he looked at her.

“What?”

This wasn’t going the way she’d planned.

She’d planned to keep it light and easy and slightly veiled in sarcasm. She’d planned to stun him with that dress and bring him back to his apartment and spend time with him alone – for the first time in, quite possibly, a month – and she’d tell him how she loved him and how she wanted him around and he’d kiss her again and then they’d fall asleep together.

Or they’d kiss some more.

That part of the plan was a bit murkier.

And he absolutely wasn’t following the plan.

She hadn’t expected him to agree that quickly. She probably should have.

“What do you mean, what?” Killian asked.

“I mean, just like that? Yes and that’s that?”  
  
“Well, you haven’t actually asked me a specific question yet, Swan,” he laughed, eyes falling back to her mouth. “But, yeah, just like that.”  
  
Emma bit her lip and tried to take a deep breathe. It didn’t really work. “Move in with me,” she said, rushing over the words before she lost her nerve.

He kissed her then and at least that part of the plan seemed to have worked.

“You’re sure?” he asked softly, nerves practically rolling off him.

“Yeah,” Emma said with a conviction that didn’t surprise her. Not anymore. Not when he looked at her like that.

“It’s not much of a deal, though, Swan. Generally that requires some sort of exchange of goods.”  
  
“Were there not baked goods involved?”   
  
He laughed – loud and the sound seemed to settle into Emma’s heart or some other vaguely ridiculous cliché and she was so goddamn happy she was positive she’d never be able to fall asleep. “There could be,” he said, thumb tracing the edge of her jaw until he pushed his fingers into her hair.

“See, seems like a pretty good deal then.”

“And,” Killian added, head ducking down as he kissed along the side of her neck. The goosebumps were back. “I don’t think it’s going to be nearly as messy as you think.”  
  
“No?”  
  
“Uh huh. In fact, I think it sounds fairly nice.”  
  
“Nice?”  
  
“A generic word, I’ll you give you that, Swan. But it’s still true. And it might be exactly what I want.”  
  
“Might be?”  
  
“I didn’t want to push.”  
  
“I think we’re past the point of no return on the whole pushing thing.”  
  
He hummed against her skin and Emma could feel Killian’s smile on the side of her neck. “That might be true,” he agreed. “I’m glad.”  
  
“Me too.”

She didn’t ever really get to sleep – but neither did he.

And David only laughed a little bit when they wandered into Granny’s the next morning, Leo Henry asleep in the carrier next to him. And Mary Margaret smiled at them and Henry asked if they could go the Piers later that afternoon.

She gave him a key that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wellllllll this is the last week of updates and I cannot possibly thank you guys for the absolutely incredible response to this story. It has absolutely blown my mind and put a smile on my face for the last few months and I am just a mess of emotions. 
> 
> I absolutely adore @laurenorder and how much work she's also put into this story. She's fantastic. Tell her that, world. 
> 
> Come flail on Tumblr if you're down: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


	40. Chapter 40

“Swan!”

She didn’t turn around, just kept chopping and searing, shouting at one of the waiters that _service is up_ and nodding towards the small pile of plates on the counter next to her. He yelled her name again and Emma felt the smile move across her face slowly, something like excitement fluttering in the pit of her stomach.

“What?” she sighed, turning around to grin at him.

She should have expected the look on his face – the smirk and the eyebrow and the way his eyes flashed down her body, zeroing in on the apron wrapped around her waist. She _did_ expect it and it didn’t do any good.

She still felt as if her knees went weak.

“You weren’t supposed to change the menu.”  
  
“I didn’t change the menu.” He nodded towards the tray of food that went out the kitchen door behind him, eyes widening meaningfully. “Ok,” Emma sighed. “So I changed like two things. But that was because they sold well last week and also because you forgot to order food that I could actually use to make things on your menu.”

“Swan.”  
  
“Killian.”

He shook his head, but he was smiling and Emma wiped her hands forcefully on the front of her apron, tossing the knife back on the counter behind her. Killian sighed again, eyes widening at the movement and she’d mostly done it for the reaction anyway.

“You’re just tossing my stuff around now?”

“It’s not your stuff,” Emma said, nodding when someone asked her if the food on three different plates looked ready.

“It’s definitely still my stuff, Swan.”  
  
“Seems awfully possessive, Lieutenant. Shouldn’t we be better at sharing things now?”

Killian’s smirk, somehow, got even more pronounced and if they were going to do this – this flirty, teasing, banter thing – they should probably get out of the middle of the kitchen in the middle of a dinner service.

“Are you suggesting, somehow, Swan, that I’m not good at sharing my possessions? I’ve given you my restaurant.”  
  
“But not your menu.”  
  
He shook his head again and Emma turned back towards the vegetables simmering in the pan behind her, flipping them before shouting to the entire kitchen that she’d be gone for five minutes. At least. She tugged on Killian’s hand, pulling him back into the hallway between the kitchen and the dining room.

They stopped a few feet away from the door – Emma’s back against the wall and she crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re interrupting my service, you know.”  
  
“Ah, that’s yours too?”  
  
“For the next week, at least,” Emma muttered. “What are you even doing here?”

He wasn’t supposed to be there. He wasn’t even supposed to be in Manhattan. He was supposed to be in Gowanus. He was supposed to be in Gowanus, running a brand-new kitchen and setting up a schedule for fifty tables a night.

They’d won – or whatever word made the most sense in a situation when a real estate mogul actually got arrested on tax evasion and had his assets seized and one mixed-up family of people pooled their resources and bought a half-refurbished warehouse at auction.

That was three months ago.

And while Killian wasn’t ever lacking in bravado or a well-executed smirk, he was nervous about fifty tables and a restaurant he couldn’t actually be in every single night and, so, two days after they’d won the auction and Marco started working again, Emma had made a suggestion.

Another deal.

She’d offered up her services – so to speak.

And he’d accepted. Easily.

So, she’d gone to work and Emma was back in the kitchen for three months that summer, running The Jolly Roger’s first incarnation while Killian kept things on track in Brooklyn and helped make sure Eric didn’t have some sort of mental breakdown in the warehouse’s giant kitchen.

She loved it.

She loved being back in the kitchen and in control and the way her whole body ached by the time she got home, wrists and forearms sore from flipping and frying and chopping. She was exhausted every night and Killian was exhausted every night, but it was a different kind of exhaustion than it had been during the all-star competition.

It was an exhaustion that came from knowing, in some sort of deep, meaningful, exceptionally cheesy way, that they were building something together.

He asked for her opinion on the new menu and only muttered slightly when she grabbed pop tarts for breakfast when she was running late in the morning.

She asked him to help pick out the oven for her new set and what she should make on her first episode – a redo of a traditional tartiflette that was, basically, a glorified breakfast casserole that David demanded on his birthday every year.

It was easy. And not nearly as terrifying as Emma had been worried it might turn out when the words _move in with me_ had tumbled out of her mouth.

The Jolly Roger 2.0 was slated to open, officially, in a week.

The night after Emma filmed the newest version of her show – complete with those brand-new appliances and a new approach that let her make whatever kind of food she wanted – and the irony of all of this, the new beginnings and the optimism and the _emotion_ , was certainly not lost on her.

“Finished early,” he said, but Emma shook her head before he finished talking.

“Try again.”  
  
“You think I’m lying, Swan?”  
  
“I think you’re not entirely telling me the truth.”  
  
Killian laughed, stepping into her space without another word and kissed her and it wasn’t what she expected either. It was soft and meaningful and full of the reason he’d shown up in Tribeca in the middle of dinner service demanding answers about his menu – he was looking for an excuse to see her.

And Emma was glad.

“How’d it go?” Emma asked, not even bothering to move her lips away from his when she spoke.

“What, love?”  
  
“Filming.”  
  
He hadn’t been in the network offices since he’d lost months ago – despite Regina’s, sometimes, very loud demand that he get back on set and in that Iron Chef jacket and win _the goddamn show_ – too focused on the restaurant and moving most of his worldly possessions into Emma’s two bedroom and getting to level thirty-two of Henry’s video game. That part might have been the biggest challenge of them all.

But he’d finally listened two weeks ago – Regina hardly playing fair, using Roland and his questions as to why _Uncle Killian hadn’t been on TV in a while_ against him – and he left the apartment that morning with only a minimal amount of grumbling.

“Did you win?” Emma continued. “Did you even go?”  
  
“Of course I went. Trust me, love, you’d know if I didn’t show up. Regina probably would have torn this restaurant from top to bottom looking for  
me.”  
  
“So?”

“So, what?”  
  
“Killian,” she sighed and now he was doing it for the reaction.

“Of course I won, Swan,” he said and confidence was a very good look for him.  

“And?”  
  
“And, what?”  
  
“This repeating thing is getting old.”  
  
“Then ask me a straight forward question.”  
  
“You didn’t answer it,” Emma argued. “I asked why you were here and you told me you finished early, but that doesn’t time up at all. You couldn’t have filmed and made it to Gowanus, done much of anything and made it back here by now. It just doesn’t make sense.”  
  
Killian took a step back, eyes narrowing, but his hand didn’t move away from her waist, fingers still tight despite his outstretched arm. “You’re very smart, Swan.”  
  
“What are you doing here?”  
  
“I’m hungry.”  
  
“And you came here?”  
  
“It is a restaurant, isn’t it?”

“Last time I checked.”

“Then I’m thinking I might be able to get some food, right? Rumor has it there are even a few new menu items to choose from.”

Emma sighed, rolling her eyes with all the dramatics she could muster. “I explained that.”  
  
“And I’ve almost come to some sort of understanding on it.”

“Well, I can’t promise you a table, but there might be some space at the bar. And I’ll even give you special ordering privileges. Just tell me what you want and I’ll go make it now.”

“Or we could...not do that.”  
  
He rocked back on his heels, hand falling away from Emma as he stuffed it into his pocket and eyed her with an almost nervous energy that made her even _more_ certain there was a very specific reason he was in his restaurant.

“What exactly would we do instead?” Emma asked, eyebrows lifting and eyes widening meaningfully.

“Not that.”  
  
“I didn’t say anything.”  
  
“Yuh huh.”  
  
“I didn’t! I asked one question!”  
  
“I think you should take a cooking break.”  
  
Emma huffed out a breath of air, frustration creeping into the back of her mind that he wouldn't give her a straight answer. “It’s the middle of dinner.”  
  
“You eat yet?”

“I’ve been a little busy.”

Killian nodded once, leaning towards her and wrapping his fingers around hers, pulling her away from the wall and back towards the dining room. He didn’t acknowledge her groan – not even trying to stay quiet as he walked her through the very crowded restaurant and the frustration that had been coursing through her system disappeared in half a second as soon as she made her way past table seventeen.

The bar was full and they all cheered when she came out and Killian’s hand tightened a fraction of an inch around her fingers, nervous energy turned to full-on excitement and something Emma had come to realize was actually love.

And it was emotional and overwhelming and she was drowning in it.

And she couldn’t have been happier.

“What is this?” she muttered, glancing up at him.

“Dinner,” Killian answered, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world. And it was – the bar piled high with food and takeout bags from Granny’s and and plates that Emma was certain she’d made just a few minutes before and several varieties of baked goods.

“How?” Emma sputtered, eyes darting across the small crowd of faces in front of her.

“He did all of it,” Mary Margaret muttered, leaning forward to tug on Emma’s shirtsleeve. “Planned the whole thing.”  
  
“And what is the whole thing, exactly?”  
  
“You wound me, Swan,” Killian laughed, fingers tied up in hers entirely now. “It’s dinner. And a break. And something possibly resembling a celebration a week before you get your show back.”  
  
“And you open your restaurant.”  
  
“Yeah, that too. Although, I’ll be honest, I was more focused on your show.”  
  
Of course he was.

And he had been from the start.

“There is alcohol,” Will said sharply, distracting Emma long enough that she pulled her slightly-stunned gaze away from Killian for half a second. “We should probably drink some of it since I made very fancy drinks.”  
  
“You made my drinks,” Killian shot back. “You’ve never come up with a drink recipe in your entire life.”

Will shrugged, doling out glasses and swatting away Henry’s hand without a word. “Did you even go to the studio today?” Emma asked, finger wrapped around one of Killian’s belt loops.

“He better have,” Regina muttered and Killian rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling when he looked back at Emma, pausing only briefly to haul Roland up.

“Did you win Uncle Killian?” he asked, voice shaking with laughter when he flipped over Killian’s shoulder.

“I did.”  
  
“Then how?” Emma continued, determined to get an answer.

Killian shrugged – an impressive feat with a seven-year-old draped over his back – and there was something in the way he looked at her that shot straight to Emma’s core, all softness and half a smile. “It was kind of a group effort.”

Emma glanced back at the bar – David and Henry trying to sneak desserts before actual food and Mary Margaret’s soft, chastising words at the movement. Will leaning across the bar with his hand wrapped around Belle’s wrist and a very pregnant Ariel sitting on one of the stools, Eric’s hand resting on the back of her neck as he rummaged in a paper bag for takeout containers of fries. Regina and Robin sat in their usual spot on the side of the bar, drinks in their hands as clinked their glasses with Ruby.

Emma could feel her smile get wider with every breath she took, eyes landing on Mary Margaret with an unspoken question plastered on her face. Mary Margaret shook her head deftly in response.

It hadn’t been a group effort.

It had been all Killian.

And once upon a time, when Emma was positive no one would ever want her – when she’d sat in that cell and tried to figure out what her life would, eventually, look like, she’d never even let herself imagine anything like this.

Because this was all pretty perfect.

* * *

“You ever going to tell me the truth?”

“Hmmm?”

He widened his eyes at Emma’s voice – or maybe because she was only wearing his t-shirt, knees pulled tight against her chest, chin resting on top of them.

It had all worked perfectly, the plan he and Henry had come up with two weeks before executed to near-perfection at the bar of The Jolly Roger a few hours before. It had, almost, been too easy to do – everyone more than willing to make sure Emma stayed properly distracted so that it would actually stay a surprise.

Even Henry managed to not say anything.

And the look on her face when she’d walked into the dining room had made it worth it, the way her eyebrows shot up and her fingers moved underneath his and that soft, little gasp she always took when something particularly _exciting_ was happening.

She barely stopped smiling all night, laughing and eating and never more than a few inches from his side, only moving to hug Henry tightly before he left with the Mills-Locksley family for the night. He’d groaned in teenage-fashion, promising he’d be fine and go to sleep at a school-night appropriate time. Robin nodded behind him, a now-sleeping Roland draped across his shoulder and Emma smiled as they walked away.

“The truth,” Emma repeated, pressing back against the headboard of her bed. _Their bed._  That was still taking some getting used to.

“About?”  
  
“The party you planned.”  
  
“It was hardly a party, Swan. A gathering.”  
  
“A gathering?”  
  
“You’re doing that repeating thing again.”  
  
Emma rolled her eyes and he shouldn’t enjoy that as much as he did – teasing her and getting her to laugh and maybe that had been why he’d planned all of this in the first place, to make sure she _knew_ just how much he cared.

When he thought about it that way, it almost sounded a little selfish.

“I can hear you thinking,” Emma said, snapping his attention back to her and that stupid t-shirt. “Plus you kind of froze up there, that’s not a good way to play this if you’re trying to keep secrets.”  
  
“No one is keeping secrets.”  
  
She just raised her eyebrows in response and he sank onto the side of the mattress, hearing her move before he saw her, her chin resting on the top of his shoulder as her arms snaked around his waist.

“Liar, liar,” Emma muttered, whispering the words in his ear.

He laughed, leaning back out of instinct when she kissed along his jaw. “I’m not actually wearing any pants, so I don’t know if you can finish that line.”  
  
“Shame.”  
  
“It was Henry’s idea, you know.”  
  
She stiffened against his back, head snapping up. “What?”  
  
“The party, gathering, whatever. It was his idea. Give you a night where you weren’t stressed about your show and getting back on set. I just helped.”  
  
“I’m not stressed about my show,” she said quickly, falling back into the small pile of pillows she always kept at the head of the bed.

“Look who’s lying now.”  
  
Her shoulders fell and she scrunched her nose as she squeezed her eyes shut. “Well,” Emma admitted, face turned up towards the ceiling. “Not a ton.”  
  
“See, then you needed this.”

“A party?”  
  
“Proof that there are ton of people who are certain you can do just about anything and wanted to remind you of that while drinking more alcohol than they should.”  
  
“That drink was really good.”  
  
“I’m going to take that as a compliment because it was my drink.”  
  
“That seems fair,” Emma laughed. And he absolutely would have rearranged his entire schedule all over again just make sure he heard her laugh like that at least once a day. “Although, that’s not what M’s said.”  
  
“Mary Margaret’s aware of what drinks I have and haven’t made?”  
  
“No, no, that’s not what I meant. She said this whole party thing was your doing. Plus, you know, Henry’s thirteen, so I tend to doubt his organizational skills just a bit.”  
  
“When did you even have time to talk to Mary Margaret about that?”  
  
“It was a look.”  
  
“A look?” he said skeptically and Emma eyed him when he repeated her words.

“We’ve got that whole telepathic communication thing down pat. How do you think we talk about David while he’s still in the room?”  
  
“I’ll have to remember that.”

Emma laughed again, pushing back up and swinging her legs over his. She kept staring at him, corners of her mouth turned up and her fingers in the back of his hair and it was hardly playing fair. He’d have to answer her – and she knew it.

“It was Henry’s idea, but I might have done a lot of the leg work.”  
  
“How so?”  
  
“Got the food, reorganized my schedule so we shot earlier in the afternoon, baked things.”  
  
“Yeah, I noticed there were a vaguely obscene amount of baked goods. How’d you manage that? We only have one oven.”  
  
“There’s one in my old apartment too. I baked there or baked while Eric and I came up with a menu in Gowanus the last two days and Henry made some after school. I think he used Mary Margaret and David’s oven.”  
  
“Wait, wait, you got Henry to bake?”  
  
Killian shrugged. “It wasn’t overly difficult. The whole understanding how to use an oven on his own is a work in progress, but we’ll get there.”  
  
He hardly stayed upright when Emma kissed him – arms locked around his neck and legs twisting so they were either side of him and he couldn’t hold back the groan that escaped his mouth when she pressed her chest up against his, swiveling her hips and there wasn’t nearly enough fabric to hide anything.  
  
Emma didn’t seem to mind.

And Killian certainly wasn’t going to object to it any time soon.

Because he was so ridiculously, overwhelmingly happy it was, sometimes, difficult to see straight.

He’d been the first to admit he was worried about moving in – a tiny ball of anxiety and a muttered _too soon_ racing through his mind, but she’d put the key in his hand the next morning and he’d already left so many clothes in the corner of her closet it seemed kind of pointless to ever really go back to his apartment three blocks away.

He didn’t ever really want to go back.

So he didn’t – they fell into each other’s lives with an ease that shouldn’t have surprised him because that was how it had always been. They were a family – faster than he thought possible and easier than he ever could have imagined and he couldn’t even bring himself to be worried about the metaphorical _other shoe,_ far too focused on everything else.

He focused on the way she woke up in the morning, slowly, blinking blearily when his alarm went off or the way she brushed her fingers through Henry’s hair when she was _feeling_ something or how she hummed in the back of her throat and rocked back and forth on the one night they’d been allowed to babysit Leo and he wouldn’t stop crying.

And, most of all, he focused on the way his heart had leapt into his throat when she’d offered to take over The Jolly’s kitchen so that he could organize things at the warehouse and keep Eric from completely melting down in the middle of Brooklyn.

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” Emma mumbled against his mouth and he tried not to laugh too loud, certain he’d rather keep kissing her than talking about clothing options. Instead he wrapped his arm around her waist and flipped her, hovering over her with his fingers pushed under her shirt – his shirt – and appreciating the way she arched up at the touch.

“And you’re not wearing clothes that belong to you,” he shot back, tongue darting over his lips when her eyes landed on his mouth.  
  
“Those double negatives are awfully confusing.”

“You just have to focus,” he said, biting into that same lip when her hand pressed underneath his boxers. “Swan.”  
  
“What was that about focusing?”  
  
“That’s hardly playing fair, love.”  
  
“I wasn’t aware we were playing,” she said, grinning at him. “You’re talking too much now too, though. In addition to too many clothes.”  
  
“So many complaints.”

She shook her head, hair flying across her forehead. “Suggestions.”  
  
“Ah, and what exactly are you suggesting? For the record as it were.”  
  
Her fingers moved again, pushing on fabric until it was halfway down his thighs and she had to use the heel of her foot to move them farther down, landing on his ankle. “That,” Emma said and he hissed in his breath when she wrapped her hand around him. “For the record.”

Killian didn’t say anything else –  _couldn’t_ have said anything else even if he wanted to – just ducked his head and kissed her, hard and heady until he was certain the world had actually fallen off its axis.

And he was just focused on her and the feel of her and the sounds she made in his ear and how she dug the pads of her fingers into his shoulder.

He might have moaned out several words and possibly her name when she pushed back up against him, rocking her hips up and, somehow, pulling him closer to her. He was actually trying to memorize her – burn it all in his head and his memory as they kept moving, his hand tracing over the side of her thigh and she’d never actually taken his shirt off.

“Thank you,” Emma said later, pulled up against his side, and it could have been days later for all he knew.

“You don’t have to thank me for that, Swan,” he laughed, turning his head to grin at her. She rolled her eyes and smacked her hand lightly at his chest.

“I absolutely was not talking about that.”  
  
“You might want to consider being more specific then.”  
  
“I meant for everything else. The party and letting me change your menu and only being vaguely upset about it. And for being here. I’m glad you’re here.”  
  
His pulse sped up and he tried to smile without actually breaking down in the middle of the bed, Emma’s voice sinking into that tiny space in the middle of his core that he was absolutely positive nothing would ever be able to fill.

“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else,” he said honestly. Emma blinked, smiling softly at him and nodding like she was convincing herself it was true.

“I love you.”  
  
“I love you too.”

They made french toast the next morning.

And a week later Emma Swan made her return to the network studio, a redecorated set and refocused determination as she filmed a brand-new season of The Kitchen. She made it to the warehouse five minutes before doors opened and Killian, once again, couldn’t quite believe how he’d stumbled into all of this.

She’d brought rum with her, grabbing two glasses from behind the enormous bar on the far wall of the dining room, filling both of them with a smile on her face. He took it without question, tilting it towards her on instinct.

“For luck,” he muttered.

Emma nodded once. “I’m not sure we need it.”  
  
“Mom?” Henry asked, hopping onto the chair next to her. “We going to eat soon?”  
  
She glanced up at Killian, eyes wide, and he grinned at Henry. “What do you want?”

“Rol wants cheeseburgers.”  
  
“Of course he does. What do you want?”  
  
“Cheeseburgers?”  
  
Emma sighed, rolling her eyes towards the ceiling. Killian just laughed. “Yeah, we can do that.” Henry let out a whoop of excitement as Will placed a glass of root beer in front of him with a knowing smile on his face.

They went home together, jammed into the backseat of a cab and Henry fell asleep. Killian half-carried him up the steps to the front door, Emma’s hand on her son’s back to push him in the direction of the elevator.

“Thanks for changing your menu, Killian,” Henry mumbled as he all but collapsed onto his bed.

“No problem.”  
  
Emma was already under the blankets when he walked into the room, but she smiled at him when he walked in and her hand found its way into his hair as soon as Killian sat down. “I can’t believe you made cheeseburgers.”  
  
“They had to eat.”  
  
“There was a whole menu of food.”

“And somehow I don’t know that a thirteen-year-old and a seven-year-old would have been particularly interested in any of it.”  
  
She scoffed under her breath, tugging him down towards her. “It was still nice,” she said. “It went really well too. Packed all night.”  
  
“And Eric only freaked out once.”  
  
“That was because Ariel thought she was going into labor.”  
  
“Nothing if not dramatic.”  
  
“Trust me, she’ll know when she actually goes into labor.”

Killian laughed, shaking his head when her hair fell towards his chin. “How was filming? Ruby still as nervous about the look of it?”  
  
“She stopped worrying about that after Dorothy added some of her prints to the wall and she didn’t have a theming leg to stand on.”  
  
“You’re deceptive, Swan.”  
  
“I just know how to get what I want.”  
  
“Yeah? And what do you want?”  
  
“This,” she said, without a hint of hesitation. “I want this.”

Emma smiled, only muttering slightly when he reached around her to flick on the ancient alarm clock he’d brought with him three months ago when he’d moved three blocks downtown. She fell asleep quickly, her even breathing rising and falling against his chest and if this was what she wanted, then this seemed pretty perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I am a mess of emotions and finished stories and I can't believe this is all wrapped up. Fluff on fluff on fluff on fluff. There's no possible way I could thank you guys for your incredible response to this story, but just know that I am absurdly grateful and every single click, comment and kudos means the absolute world to me. 
> 
> This would be NOTHING without @laurenorder who is a gem of a human and deserves several worlds. Come flail on Tumblr if you're down: lllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


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